


I'm Not Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf

by Blitzdrake, IAmWhelmed



Category: Paranatural (Webcomic)
Genre: AU, Family, Friendship, Gen, Mystery, Romance, parytale entry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:48:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3884740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blitzdrake/pseuds/Blitzdrake, https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmWhelmed/pseuds/IAmWhelmed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Witches are the bane of every human's existence- at least, that's what everyone under the order of the Faith seems to think. Max doesn't even believe in witches, and Isaac's ties with the Faith lead one to believe he's against spells and voodoo. Ed seems to be the only one who doesn't care either way, considering his status as a werewolf hardly puts him in any position to pass judgement. With a growing interest in magic, Isabel is becoming desperate to learn the ways of her deceased witch mother. Her Grandfather is more focused on keeping her off a burning stake than bringing her up to be a proper witch. She has more than fairy dust to worry about, though, as secrets buried deep in the village's history begin to rise and might just bring about the end of Isabel's life in more ways than one. Little Red Riding Hood needs her wolf now more than ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“ _Ware the Forests Edge.”_

_A good little child should always know,_

_Places to avoid and places to go,_

_Where sunlight shines and fields are clear,_

_A good little child holds such a place dear._

_But where the trees crowd close, and the grass is tall,_

_A good little child, should never go there, not at all._

_So stay to your path and the well-trimmed grass,_

_For o’er the forest’s edge, a good child will not pass._

_~Excerpt from ‘A collection of Folk Tales,’ Gosling Grimm,_

_Uncovered in the ruins of Mayview, 245 A.D. (After the Division)_

 

 

Isabel grimaced and clutched the woven handle of her basket closer to her chest.

“Today is not the day, Woodsman.”

“I’m just interested in what you’ve got in that little basket of yours, Red.”

The annoyance she’d come to know as Johnny circled her like a cobra in waiting- a dirty snake hiding behind grass his mouth was much too big for. “Don’t call me that.” It took her seconds to calm herself. If she spit at him like she wanted to, word would get back to the authorities.

Then she’d be taken away from her grandfather.

With a firm hand on Johnny’s shoulder, she lightly- for her- moved him aside. The woodsman’s face fell. “What’cha got in there that’s such a big secret, huh?”

“Get out of my way, Johnny.”

One foot in front of the other and eventually she would be far, far away from the nuisance who seemed to enjoy following her every waking move. Hanging around the smith’s son Max had been simultaneously one of the best and one of the worst decisions she’d ever made.

It was the worst because people like Johnny, whose parents had been responsible for calling Misses Puckett a witch (subsequently leading to her public execution), found ways to mess with people like Isabel and Isaac. Time after time, the two had been accused of practicing blood magic- for so much as having a little luck on a test other students found unmanageable. Had Inquisitor Spender not come into power in the time after Misses Puckett’s death, Isabel and Isaac and Max would have been burned so many times there would have been no kindling left in town. Not a day passed she didn’t thank whatever deity may be for the existence and influence of Inquisitor Spender, the first sane man to have control in a very long time.

Max himself made up for everything, though. He couldn’t have been any older than seven when they’d come to collect his mother in the night. She’d heard it from her own home across the circle- Max’s father pleading and the infant that she now knew as Zoey crying. She’d wandered blindly out onto her balcony that night to see that Max had been holding her hand right until the horses carried the carriage too fast for his legs to keep up. He’d been swept into a hug with his father before Isabel’s grandfather had ushered her inside. The next morning he’d acted differently. Instead of being calm and collected, he was cynical and kind of a jerk. Still, he was the funniest person she’d been around in a long time and his loyalty knew no bounds, be it to his family or to her and Isaac. He hid it well behind a mask of indifference and mockery, but it was clear as day that Maxwell Puckett lived for the people he held dear.

Isaac was no different, save for lacking his own set of walls. Son of a priest, it was almost shocking that anybody believed him to be wicked in the first place. His blood was holy. He was going to be a priest himself, one day. When that time came, she had a feeling there was going to be an uproar- people calling him underworld spawn on one side and people who actually knew Isaac on the other. His temper was hot as Hell itself, but his heart was always in the right place.

And the final plus of becoming friends with Max…

Isabel’s hand tightened around the basket’s handle.

She just had to get into the woods and she’d be fine. One step forward- one foot after the other and she’d be home free. Isabel repeated the words over and over again. That is, if Johnny would move the foot he’d just so defiantly placed between her own two feet. She glanced up at him, fingers playing with the red napkins that spilled over the sides of her basket. “I don’t think I like your tone, Red.”

“What are you even going to do, Johnny? Your group of morons isn’t here.”

At his outburst of “Don’t call them that”, she wasn’t even stunned. Instead she rolled her eyes and sidestepped, making sure her cape whapped him in the face on her passing. He jerked and twisted around, gripping her wrist and pulling her back around. She yelped, sliding her basket down her arm so that she wouldn’t drop it. As hard as she tried, Isabel couldn’t hold back the gulp of saliva and air she had to swallow. Johnny’s lips curved into his famous rambunctious grin. “Aw, look at that. Little Red Riding Hood is scared of the woodsman.”

“I’m not scared of you, Johnny.”

“Yeah, you’d try to kick my face in if it wouldn’t put you on death row.” She hissed. The grip on her wrists tightened just enough for the blood to start slowing in circulation to her hands. “But it will, won’t it? Three strikes an’ you’re out, you know.”

Isabel shifted so that she could eye the forest in her peripheral vision. She was still several inches away.

Stay calm, Isabel. You can do this.

All she had to do was keep Johnny talking until she could feel the dirt path under her feet become grass.

Slowly, she began inching backward. “Yeah, I know. So with little old Red in such a compromising position, what are you gonna do? Steal my basket?”

“I was thinking about it, yeah.”

“Well good luck, ‘cause I can still run even if I can’t fight.”

Johnny glanced down at her feet and suddenly she regretted being so cocky. “Yeah… yeah I guess you can, huh?”

It happened quickly. One minute she could feel Johnny’s heel wrap around the back of her own and the next she was falling backward, clutching the woven basket in her arms for dear life. “Just give me the basket and we can make this easy. I just wanna make sure you’re not up the any blood magic an’ that it’s not somebody’s dog’s head in there or something.”

“Johnny there would literally be blood all over the basket.”

“Maybe it’s another witch’s head?”

“… Assuming witches don’t bleed?”

Johnny laughed and glanced around at the floor. Isabel took the opportunity to scoot as close to the woods as she could. Fighting back would only lead to her being locked in jail- again. Then her grandfather would have to bail her out- again. But, for the first time, people may actually believe she was a witch. That would not be any fun. “Ah-hah!”

Johnny seemed to find what he was looking for, because he bent down to pick up something sharp and shiny- a shard of glass from a broken wine bottle (or something to that affect). “Well now I’m curious to see if witches bleed. Wanna try it out, Red?”

Johnny got a response he hadn’t been anticipating- dead silence. “Red?”

 

 

Isabel sighed contently and leaned into the furry arms of the strange wolf that’d saved her- probably for the third time that week. She was never so helpless, but the ever-hanging idea of a third charge of domestic violence sending her away had made her so helpless as of late. She felt every step the wolf took on its hind legs, arms tightening around her when it felt her starting to slip. Isabel glanced at her arm and found the basket she’d only nearly grabbed before the wolf had swept her away from the situation. She’d made it into the forest line just in time.

“You’re not talking. You in a bad mood or something?”

The wolf grunted in response. Three weeks ago it would have sounded like a growl to her. “Aw, what? You’re angry at Woodsy, aren’t ya?”

There was another low grunt.

Isabel smiled and pulled a small pot pie out of the basket, waving it around to try and wafer the scent into the general area of his nose. It sniffed once, then another time, and then it was looking down at her with its big black eyes wide. “Yes, this is for you. You liked it when Max brought it over last time, so I figured I could make you one with Isaac’s help. They’re not far behind me, by the way. Max is helping his dad grab the chicken eggs and Isaac told me he has to pray first. I said it was weird that he still prays now that he knows you exist, but he said it was even more reason to.”

It nuzzled her cheek with its nose at the mention of their friends. The gesture made Isabel shriek and nearly drop the pot pie. “Awww, come on ‘outta that form, will you? I wanna talk to you, not my new pet dog.”

Slowly but surely, Isabel felt skin where there had once been fur. She got closer and closer to the ground, but she still felt arms wrapped behind her knees and waist.

When all that fur had gone and the face changed and she could see a human face, Isabel smiled just as he smiled back at her. “Hey, Ed.”

“Izzy.”

“You know Johnny wasn’t gonna cut me, right?”

“Well yeah, but he was still trying to steal your basket.”

“With your treat inside!”

“Speaking of which, I’m pretty hungry, so…”

“…So what-EEP!”

Isabel squealed and wrapped her arms around Ed’s neck as the air started picking up around them. He was fast- even for a werewolf.

Yes, being friends with Max Puckett brought her to her new best friends- and maybe just a little bit of witchcraft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S Don't listen to Blitz. He's going to make this story legit.
> 
> You'll understand when you see the notes for the next chapter. - Whelmed


	2. Eyes Wide Shut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surely there were plenty of things worse than being an outcast in your own town and a failure at the job you were born to do. If only Isaac could think of one of them.

“ _And the Blind Lady sayeth unto us all…_

_Truth needs no Light to exist, for even in the Darkness, Truth is immutable, unchanging._

_Light may blind you to the Truth, clouding your sight with a brilliance that obscures all._

_Light may give the glamour of Truth to Lies, giving Deception a warm comforting glow._

_Light may illuminate words, written by a hand devoid of sacrament, yet presented to you as Holy._

_Trust not your eyes, for they will mislead you, in vision, in letter.  Under a Bright sky a Lie is still a Lie._

_Trust only my Voice. The Voice of Heaven.  Delivered to you by my shepherds, those of the Sacred Blood._

_For in the Night, in my Time, those Chosen few, shall receive my Words, my Dreams._

_And in the Day, when the Light of Lies may lead you astray, they will carry my Voice to you.”_

_~The Blind Lady’s Promise,_

_Passed down by Oration from the First High Priestess, Deino Graeae, 03 B.D. (Before the Division)_

 

“And please,” the red head muttered, voice tinged with a heartfelt urgency and impatience reserved for the very young and the very old, “please grant me some vision, some Dream.  Something to let me know my place, to let everyone know my place.”  Isaac finished yet another supplication, remaining in the time honored pose of a follower of the Blind lady, knees to the floor, back stiff and ram-rod straight, head raised, eyes closed.  Both hands joined in front of him to form a triangle pointing upward, the fingers meeting at the tip, forming two sides, the thumb’s meeting at the bottom to form the base.  The gesture was called the Lady’s Gaze for it was said to mimic her face, ever pointed heavenward, always watching the sun and the sky beyond for dangers.  Just as the gazes of her Chosen followed the path of the Moon, her palace, ever looking upward to her for guidance in the night sky.  Guidance that was supposed to come in the form of Dreams.  Dreams filled with portents, wisdom, warnings, and prophecies. 

No such otherworldly revelations came for Isaac though, just the very worldly ones crowding his thoughts.  Isaac’s knees throbbed from the cold stone floor, the small but sharp corners of the tiles digging through the thin linen of an acolyte’s leggings and tunic.  His back complained of the stiffness of holding the pose.  His eyelids fluttered with a desire to open, to peak, to look around at the soft rustles and coughs of other people moving through the old chapel.  His bladder throbbed.  The last one drove him to curse himself silently for a fool.  He knew better than to drink so much at breakfast before morning Vigil, but the apples in the chapel yard had only just ripened and the first juices were only pressed the night before.  It was a moment of weakness and he was suffering for it now, but oh how he loved apples.  Still, what was one more discomfort in a cacophony of protests from his body, all distracting him from the morning-long Vigil he was supposed to be enduring. 

All about him, the regular people of Mayview, people who weren’t trained, not of the Sacred Blood, shifted, muttered, moved, with no worries, no cares.  After the morning Words were delivered in sermon, they came up to the front of the chapel in easy slow steps.  Making their own time, waiting for a clear place along the wide alter and windows at the front, before quickly kneeling down and going through a few moments of supplication.  Then they’d stand up and move on to their daily obligations.  For them the Vigil was a brief thing, a few moments of morning pomp, more a demonstration of piety to their neighbors than true display of faith.  Even for the Inquisitor, Spender, who was as close as the town had to a true pious soul as far as Isaac was concerned, the Vigil was not often the full morning.  His work as the ‘interim’ word of the Lady, though how he could still refer to the position as temporary when he’d held it for seven years was beyond Isaac, often had him consulting or answering to the people of Mayview, all come seeking advice.

But of course for them the Vigil was carefree.  None of their fathers had shamed the church and the Sacred Blood of the priesthood by associating with witches before being stricken by a bolt of sky-lightning in the middle of a cursed witch-sent storm that people still whispered about 7 years later.  None of them were of the Sacred blood, as he was, but with the stigma of having never received as much as a single half-remembered Dream, or message from the Blind Lady.  None of them had to deal with the coughed whispers of “witch-blood,” when he healed too fast from an injury, moved too quickly, or with too much strength and grace.  None of them had to dodge the glares and muttering as he associated with the few friends in the entire town willing to talk to him of all people, friends which were in as much disfavor as he was.  _None of them have anything to prove_.

Sometimes, someone stepped too close, jostling him with a surreptitious bump or shove on their walk to and from their own supplications, the silence that accompanied the gesture making it clear that it was not accidental.  When that happened his knees throbbed harder as the stone tiles bit deep when his body lurched forward.  Sometimes, he’d feel the tiredness start to win out and his shoulders slump, before a judgmental cough from somewhere behind him, would jolt him alert and he’d straighten his spine over the soreness.  Sometimes, he’d hear a scandalously whispered conversation, just pointed enough, just loud enough for him to catch his name, Isaac, _the Disgrace of Mayview._ Then he’d squeeze his eyes as hard as he could to keep them shut, fighting the urge to look, to glare, to identify the culprits.  Only his hands were at ease, the gesture of the Lady’s Face was so habitual, so well trained in any child, especially an acolyte, that even hours of holding their pose brought no complaint.  Isaac did his best to push the rest of his body’s complaints away, to make instill the stoicism of his hands and compartmentalize discomfort as his teacher had taught.  He tried to focus on his need, his faith, and his belief in the Blind Lady.  _Except, do I really believe?  Not do I believe in her, of course I do.  But do I believe she has a plan for me?  A place for me?  That she even wants me in her Chapel?_

There was the crux of it.  The reason Isaac spent hours each morning at the Vigil trying to prove to the town of Mayview and himself that this was where he belonged.  Isaac hadn’t chosen the priesthood, he’d been born to it, as any child of the Sacred Blood must be.  And every year that he went without a Dream, made the muttering of the townfolk clearer.  What if he wasn’t of the Sacred Blood after all?  What if his father had dallied with witches?  Diluted the Blood in his veins to nothing?  What if he was a by blow his father pretended to love and raise who had not a drop of his father’s sacred blood to his name?  If no other reason than to honor his father’s memory, Isaac put his all into the Vigil every morning, hoping that the night that followed would at last bring redemption to himself and his family’s name.

Distracted by thoughts that were less on prayer and more on discomfort and his awful circumstances, Isaac was startled when a hand landed on his shoulder, gripping it in a friendly but firm manner. 

“Enough’s enough Isaac.  All the doubters and gossips are gone for the morning.  And really, you have nothing you need to prove to them, anyway.”

Isaac’s eyes opened, the light of the room, bright and painful to his eyes after so much enforced blindness.  Everything was a bland grey for a moment, before slowly shades swam into being, painting the stone of the chapel with slate and charcoal.  A few more blinks and colors started to re-emerge, the reds and purples of the tapestries contrasting with the greens and blues of the stained glass.  And above him, the brilliantly bright yellow-blonde hair of his appointed Guardian, Spender.  The Inquisitor sent by the Faith to restore order after his father had died and the wit- Max’s mother had been burned at the stake.   Spender grinned patiently as he waited for Isaac to readjust to the light.  He had no need for such an adjustment after his Vigils.  Spender’s eyes were obscured always, by darkened lenses, a reminder to all that though he could see, he chose to be guided by the Blind Lady’s words and had no need of his eyes. 

The lenses were a part of the costume of the fully indoctrinated faithful, or at least for those who had not been “blessed” enough to be born blind, or “devoted” enough to take their own sight in a moment of fanaticism.  Isaac shivered at that last thought.  He might feel a gaping void in himself that he dearly wished to fill with purpose, with the acceptance that being confirmed in his Blood might grant.   But there was faith and then there was Faith.  Even on his most desperate days, Isaac never considered the ritualistic blinding that some of the most devoted of the Sacred Blood underwent.  Sight might be a distraction and a temptation, but there was too much beauty in the world to give it up. _Not without a guarantee that I’ll have Her Visions and Dreams at least._   _Of course a guarantee would undermine the whole concept of Faith._   Isaac sighed.

“Is the weight of the world so heavy, Isaac,” the teasing tone in Spenders voice brought a mild flush to Isaac’s cheeks, and he realized he’d yet to rise but remained on his knees in thought.  Isaac stood abruptly.  _Too abruptly_ , Isaac almost tottered as his legs protested the motion and pins and needles lanced along his legs as blood flow returned slowly.  Only Spenders firm hand on his shoulder maintained his balance.

 “It’s not that, sir,” Isaac started, before stopping abruptly, not eager to draw Spender’s attention to the newest round of mistreatment during the morning Vigil.  Whining about the townsfolk to Spender wouldn’t solve anything.  Spender already did everything he could, had done more than necessary by choosing to stay in the own rather than let the Faith send a new Priest.  He helped immeasurably by endorsing and training Isaac as an acolyte in spite of the many protests.  Having a Guardian from the Inquisition was about as strong a mark as one could have in ones favor when people were spouting accusations of witchcraft.  _Of course, it’s still not enough to stop them.  Some people just want to someone to blame for when things go bad.  Or to feel like they belong by picking on someone who clearly, ‘doesn’t.’  Not even an Inquisitor can stop people from being people._  

Besides it was Isaac’s fault not Spenders that the people kept treating him so.  Kept doubting him.  Spender could say whatever he wanted, but as long as Isaac kept acting out, kept forgetting his place, kept forgetting to restrain himself, he’d keep drawing unfriendly eyes.  Then the talk would start up again.  About “odd” he was.  How he didn’t fit in.

Then people would start talking about witch-blood.  Witch-blood was stronger and faster than regular blood and it healed faster too.  They repeated that one whenever they looked at him, Isabel, and Max when they played and raced.  Though Max was better than any of them at holding himself back, at being cautious.  But why wouldn’t he be?  He’d suffered more than any of them at the hands of the rumors.  At least Isaac’s dad had died by freak chance in a storm, not on a pyre set ablaze by a mob of neighbors.  Witch-blood burned hotter, made them angrier, quicker to fight.  They said that one about his friend Isabel a lot.  Witch-blood made one too curious, filled you with heretical doubt in the face of even the most obvious truths. That one was their favorite when Isaac was the topic. 

After the Witch-blood talk there’d be a new round of rumors and complaints about every day bad luck.  Witches could read your mind and foil your plans, causing your luck to turn.  Witches could step out of their skin in the night, to hide themselves from the Blind Lady while they destroyed signs and vandalized houses.  Witches could fly on storm winds and obscure the world from the Blind Ladies gaze under clouds and rain, damaging the fields.  _And witches can dance on dandelion heads and other weeds without bending them while crushing all the good grain to ruin.  Witch spit can burn pockmarks and rashes onto people’s faces while they sleep.  Oh and a witch can make a cow give sour milk by whispering into its udder on a new moon when the Blind Lady is weakest.  Idiots, the only thing they don’t blame on witches is…nothing actually.  They blame everything.  Ugly babies, run-away pets, pests in the gardens, overcast days.  It’s always, “Witches,” with them._  

Realizing he’d let the silence go on too long, Isaac continued with the first thing he could think of that wasn’t the sensitive topic of idiot townsfolk and witches.

“I just, I’m 15 sir, and still…nothing.  No Dreams, no messages from the Blind Lady.  What’s wrong with me?”  Isaac regretted the whine that crept into his tone, but around his Guardian he was encouraged to be honest about his feelings.    And every month that went by without a dream, just made the whispers of the townsfolk ring louder in his head and their words constantly ate away at the faint wall of confidence and hope he hid behind.

Spender sighed, running a hand through overlong blonde bangs as he searched for an encouraging response. 

“The Dreams come when they come Isaac.  They don’t come at the same time for everyone.  Or in the same way.  Some people get visions every night, little hints of everyday things that happened within their congregation or their towns.  Others here only words in the dark of slumber, telling them hidden truths, wisdoms, or secrets.  Some only get nightmares when there’s danger that should be avoided or prevented.  And a small number get very, very rare Dreams, of things so distant, so far off in time and place, they are in effect prophecies that might make no sense for years.”  Spender’s voice had the habitual cadence of someone giving an oft repeated message.

“And did any of those, even the rarest, ever hold off, ever wait till someone was 15 before finally happening?”

Spender was silent for too long and Isaac’s shoulders slumped.  Spender saw the dismay in his ward and quickly attempted to provide some honest comfort.  “Just because a thing hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it can’t Isaac.  And there are no written records of the Dreams.  No books to research.  Perhaps some other Guardian or teacher out there knows of a case I do not?”

Isaac scoffed, before catching himself.  The one thing he thought was stupidest about the Faith was its absolute refusal to write things down.  Books were good for science and learning.  For history and business.  But for the Faith, the written word was insufficient.  Books could deceive, could be mis-printed.  The Faith insisted on keeping an oral history, passed from generation to generation.  _As if people can’t forget, or mis-speak.  As if people couldn’t lie._   Of course telling someone that one of the Sacred Blood would lie or be mistaken about the Word of the Blind Lady, or forget her Dreams, was the exact kind of thing that got people muttering, _heretical Witch-Blood_ , and staring at Isaac oddly.  And Spender couldn’t exactly defend Isaac after he made stupid remarks like that.  The fact that none of the Sacred Blood would ever Lie about a Dream or the Lady’s Word was the basis of the entire Faiths’ authority.  Spender’s power in this town was tied into his being of the Sacred Blood, of being an Inquisitor for the Faith.

Defending a claim like that from Isaac would be tantamount to admitting he, Spender, could Lie about the Dreams or be mistaken.  If he even could.  Isaac certainly couldn’t lie about having them.  Not that he’d ever tried…not in front of people.  Certainly not in front of Spender. 

But sometimes…when the stares got too pointed, the whispered words too hurtful, he’d go into his room, lock the door and try to say it.  Try to pretend.  “ _I had a Dream.  A vision.  It said I was normal.  That my friends were normal.  That you need to leave us alone.  And all of you are monsters for killing Max’s mom.  She didn’t kill my dad, it was just a storm._ ”  It was the kind of Dream he hoped and prayed for every day at Vigil.  The one that would not only clear his name, but that of his friends.  But even in pretend, EVEN in a closed room with no one else there, he couldn’t say the words.  His throat closed up after, “I had a,” refusing to utter the word Dream, to give it the sacred stamp of credence.  Whether it was a deeply bread fear of committing sacrilege, a worry that Spender would know if he ever did attempt to lie, or the actual magic of the Blind Lady and his Sacred Blood binding him to the truth of her Words, Isaac could never be sure. 

Recognizing the multiple bouts of silence thus far in the morning as an indication that Isaac was having one of his “darker” days, Spender searched his head for a distraction to cheer up his ward.

“So, it’s a day off for your schooling isn’t it?” Spender asked in a helpful manner.  The question was disingenuous, as Spender clearly knew the answer.  What little schooling the town received was from Friar Doorman, a brother from the nearby convent, who came down for five days at a time to teach the children.  When he did so he always stayed with Spender and Isaac, and Spender couldn’t have forgotten already that he and Isaac had seen the friar off on another trip to his convent, just the night before.  Still the question did bring the fact to the forefront of Isaac’s own thoughts.  As he realized what a few days off might mean, a smile finally emerged on his face.

“It means the others will want to go to the for-,” Isaac cut himself off.  The forests around Mayview where thick and fearsome.  Many a wild beast roamed it and people whispered about what sort of strange things might lurk off the beaten path.  Isaac knew at least one of those strange things by name, and he wasn’t nearly as fearsome as the village believed.  Most children and even adults gave the forest a wide berth.  But Isaac and his friends found it exciting, different, fun.  Still it wasn’t a place _normal children_ should go.  And Isaac felt it was safer not to bring it up to his Guardian. 

Spender had never forbade Isaac from hanging out with Isabel and Max.  But Spender worked so hard to convince the town that Isaac was a good acolyte.  That Isaac would one day be worthy of inheriting the town’s Chapel.  That he wasn’t Witch-blood.  And it didn’t help that his two best friends were accused of the same.  Everyone knew that Max’s mom had been burned for witchcraft.  Accused of killing Isaac’s dad with a witch-craft sent sky-bolt of lightning.  Of cursing them all with rains and floods.  Spender had said it was just a natural storm.  That the people had overacted out of fear.  But he hadn’t been able to say he’d Dreamed that was the truth.  Of course he hadn’t Dreamed that Max’s mom had been a witch either.  As he told Isaac, one couldn’t force what the Dreams showed and when.  But in the absence of a Dream, it was just the word of an experienced Inquisitor, who in spite of his expertise, was a stranger.  An Inquisitor who had only come to the town _after_ the witch hunt and the ‘unnatural’ storm. 

And Isabel’s family was just…odd.  They’d always been living out at the river, close to the woods.  Off on their own.  And everybody talked about Isabel’s parents, how different they were when they lived, and the way they’d died.  About their strange river mill.  The building that somehow used river water to ground flour and worked so mysteriously, that everyone had whispered witch-craft as it churned out flour faster than any ten men could grind it.  And then there was the mill fire, exploding with such force that the trees around the area had been blasted clear.  The boom had drawn the entire town to the destroyed ruins of the mill.  The fire that had taken them both and spared only the daughter who had been with her Grandfather at the time.  Of course the townsfolk had a theory about that.  The fire had come for her parents and did so violently.  Fire cleansed witch-blood they whispered. 

It didn't matter to them that Friar Doorman had said otherwise, saying that flour, finely ground as only their mill could achieve, was easier to spark, more volatile than wood or grain.  But what did he know?  He wasn’t from Mayview either.  Just another stranger who didn’t have to live with the witches, always telling them it was all fine.

Isabel’s Grandfather at least kept the talk quiet when he could.  As old as he was, he was the strongest man in town, serving as the town’s Baker and Miller, with arms thick from years and years of beating and shaping dough each morning and grinding flour by hand each night.  Some said that when he finally died the town would be lost, for without a miller as strong as him, or the cursed river mill, no one else could keep up with the demand for both flour and bread.

“You don’t have to tell me what horrible, awful things you are going to be up to,” Spender said, understanding at least part of Isaac’s trepidation.  “Boys will be, as they say.  Just don’t get into too much trouble.  And don’t get caught.  I don’t need another round of overly helpful mother’s reminding me that a single man has no business raising a child on his own, while trotting out their daughters in front of me with meaningful glances.”  Spender winced a moment.  The women of the town had been doing their darndest to get their “temporary,” priest settled down in the town, since their only Sacred Blooded alternative was a possibly _tainted_ child.  And Spender had done his best to deftly avoid every snare the town ladies had set.  Often joking with Isaac afterwards about his determined suitors, while shuddering in exaggerated horror at the idea of having to share his life any more than he already had to with his ward.  Though he always patted Isaac on the head after saying it to remind him that he didn’t mind taking care of Isaac. 

“In that case, I’m gonna go.  Ma-they’re probably tired of waiting for me.”

With that Isaac headed for the door, the weary weight he usually carried temporarily lifted enough that his steps were light and as close to carefree as he could come. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something Isaac?”  Spender’s voice was still teasing, but his face was more serious as he reached into a pocket and pulled out a blue-silver chain.  Dangling from it was a charm, two hands forming the Lady’s Gaze. 

“Oh yeah,” Isaac said, guilt in his voice as he returned.  He frowned as he stared at the charm.

“It’s for your own protection you know,” Spender said with a sigh as he handed the necklace over.

“I know it just…It itches.  And I think it’s been getting worse lately…” Isaac said in embarrassment. He pulled the collar of his tunic down, showing a faint pink outline on his skin, the rash marking where the chain usually lay against his neck and chest.

“Platinum is the Lady’s sacred metal,” Spender said knowingly.  “It can have that effect on some people’s skin, after all it is very powerful.  But it can keep you safe, protecting you when you are outside the sanctuary and wards of this Chapel.  It’s also a mark of your station.  It should remind people, who and what you are, and how you _should_ be treated.  A mild rash is a small price to pay for all of that.”

Spender’s smile was tight, strained, but Isaac missed the drop of sweat that started to slip down Spender’s temple, distracted as Isaac was with putting the necklace back on and slipping it under his tunic.  Task complete Isaac looked up to his guardian for permission to go outside.  By then Spender had schooled his expression into something more easy going.

“That’s all, go have fun Isaac.”  Spender shooed his ward off.  Isaac turned and walked with haste towards the exit, trying not to appear over-eager in his desire to be gone.  On his way out the door one hand absently reached to his neckline, scratching distractedly at the necklace and skin beneath.

* * *

As soon as the door closed behind Isaac, Spender put a hand to his forehead, pushing his golden bangs aside to rub his temple.

“It’s getting worse?  Lady’s Ass that was supposed to hold everything at bay.”  He muttered the imprecation without thinking, before remembering himself and where he was.  He quickly closed his eyes, looking upward and forming the Lady’s Gaze with his hands and muttering a quick, “Blind Lady, Dreamer, forgive me for my language.  It was spoken only out of frustration for the safety and well-being of one of your children.  Please send me some vision, some Dream of a way to aid him.”  

Then with a quick look around the room suspiciously, he turned his hands upside down, so the fingers pointed downward instead of upward, before offering a second prayer. “Bright Lord, Lucifer,” he began uttering words that would mark him for death if any of his fellows in the Inquisition were about, “Speed Friar Doorman on his search and his return, Lighten his path and Illuminate his search for a cure.  The Lady’s hand may not be enough to save that boy much longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelmed and I are giving the "collaboration tool" the old college try. That said if there's anything in the story you don't like its probably going to be part I wrote or stylized since Whelmed is the bomb and I'm an over wordy blabber. ^_^ ~ Blitz


	3. Holding Steady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keep his father going. Keep his sister happy. Keep his family fed. Keep his friends safe. Max is doing his best just to keep...going.

_There is no test more accurate, or more dangerous, for determining the presence of Witch-Blood, than the use of Quicksilver. The metal, when sufficient quantity is injected, is a potent poison to Witch-Blood, rendering them powerless, causing disfiguring spasms, and often killing them on the spot._

_The downside to the Test, as it is referred to when the accused has Quicksilver administered directly into the bloodstream, are that if one is pure of blood and one survives the administration of the liquid metal, one has still been injected with Quicksilver. No amount of cutting or leech-bleeding can delay the inevitable symptoms to follow.  Indeed leeches will often refuse to even bite such victims and will never drink any significant amount of blood from one who has been Tested.  That even the meanest of bests will refuse to suffer what we knowingly do to our fellow man is, I think, a sign of a failing in us.  The Test is no boon to those found not guilty, for the now assuredly innocent victim will exist as a burden upon their families.  In far too short a time they will descend into a state of neurotic, sometimes violent or at best childish dementia while their bodies slowly waste to fragile, trembling, and ghastlike shades of what they once were._

_It is a wonder any consent to the Testing at all if the best one can hope for is shell of a human being or agonizing death.  Of course, as the alternative is most often being burned alive or hung by a mob, one can see how some might demand the right to be Tested.  To survive, even in a reduced state, is an instinct at the forefront of our natures._

_There is one understandable reason to consent to the Test.  If both parents undertake the Test than the children may be spared and cleared of the charge of Witch-Blood, as a child cannot inherit the blood unless one of their parents possessed it first. If even one parent passes the Test and the other cannot be Tested for any reason, the Children are protected from being Tested until such time as they have reached their majority.  At that point the people may demand that the eldest be Tested, clearing or condemning their siblings based upon their fate. A scant protection, but it is rare that the folly and ill-omens that often spark a Witch hunt, have the power to incite a mob to such bloodlust they will be willing to maintain their suspicions and sue for a Test or a burning years later, when the eldest child comes of age._

_If one has ever had the chance to hear the screams of the Witch-Blood or watch the pained movements of an innocent survivor, one would come to feel, I’m certain, as I.  That as deceptively beautiful and unfailingly reliable as Quicksilver may be, there can be no justification for its continued use in a reasoning society.  No gain, no certainty can be worth the damage done to both the innocent, and the families, often children, left to care for them._

~Excerpt from "On All Things Sacred, a study of the Faith and its practices." Friar Doorman

 

Grunt.  Bang.  Ka-clang.  Grunt.  Bang.  Ka-clang.  Grunt. Bang.  Ka-clang.

The rhythm of the forge tested Max’s endurance as he struggled to hold the steadying-tongs still, making sure the ingot being hammered by his father remained in one place.

Grunt.  His father’s breath escaped in a low and guttural exhalation as he lifted the hammer above him.  The sound was accompanied by a slight shake and Max followed the tremble in the arm with a worried gaze.

Bang!  The jolt of the hammer impacting the metal was less a sound Max heard and more a physical thing he felt, the impact shooting through the tongs.  The blow travelled through his hands, arms, even his shoulders felt the hammer strike.

Ka-clang, the metal ingot bounced, striking the anvil and lifting from the surface tensely before falling back to the anvil.  The vibration of the impacts quivered, rubbing max’s hands against the tong grips painfully and shaking his arms.  Max strained to hold the ingot in place for the next blow.   _Come on, Max.  Dad has it hard enough focusing without the piece moving all over the place!_

Grunt.  Shadows flickered through the room, as his father lifted the hammer again, casting his face in darkness as his arm moved between himself and the hungry orange glow of the forge.  Then the hand descended, stark light again illuminating the stress and strain on his father’s face.  A face lined with marks and scars from forge sparks and wrinkles and strain from something far worse.

Bang.  Sparks scattered from the cherry-red center of the ingot as the hammer impacted.  One landed lightly on Max’s face, a gentle glowing fairy’s kiss, when he forgot to turn entranced by the sparkling display.  There was a brief sting, but Max flinched through it.  As often as he helped his father at the forge, he was used to the little spark-stings and even the occasional burn.  And they didn’t scar him like they did his father. _I just heal fast because I’m young.  Everyone says kids heal quicker than adults.  One day my face will have its own spatter of little scars and burn marks.  Like a real blacksmith.  Like my father._

Ka-clang.  The quivering ends of the ingot struck the anvil and then away, smaller showers of sparks touched off by the intensity of the shake.  Max glared, both arms straining to hold the tongs tighter, determined to forestall even the slightest, quivering ka-clang next time. _The ingot needs to be held still, focus!_

Grunt.  The hammer rose.  The warm breeze of air its passing stirred was the closest the room got to cool during forge work.  Sweat on Max’s brow stirred at the breeze, slipping down to trace a path towards his nose.  One hand moved for a second, to try and stop the sweat from stinging his eye.  Almost as soon as his hand moved, he remembered the rhythm and what was coming and reversed the course of his hand, barely restoring his grip to the tong handles before…

Bang.  Hotter air, closer to the forge and the ingot, shot outward, disturbed by the blow.  Sweat dampened hands struggled to hold the tong handles evenly, but while one held firm the other, not quite having re-secured its grip in time, was too loose.  The sweat drop, forgotten in his struggle to hold the ingot steady, continued to carve a wet trail between his eyebrows and along his nose.

Ka-skree.  The droplet on his nose flew free as Max’s whole body jerked forward, the previously well behaved ingot shuddering violently and scraping along the anvil as it slid.   _Oh no!_  Max’s eyes traced to his father, hoping his father would adjust his next strike in time.

Grunt.  His father’s eyes were still flat, trancelike, lost to thought itself.  The hammer lifted.  There was no sign of recognition in the change, but Max wasn’t surprised, the work itself took almost everything his father had these days, just the effort of lifting and falling was more than most people thought he’d ever be able to manage after… _FOCUS.  Get the ingot back into place._  Max pulled back, eyes dropping to the ingot and desperately trying to remember where the ingot had been on the anvil, the breeze and dance of firelight and shadow letting him know the descent was begun…

Bang!  The blow that struck was too sharp and painful, the hammer having hit the ingot right where the tongs gripped the metal, striking tongs and ingot alike and vibrating Max to his bones.  Compared to the previous jolts this was too much.  Max was holding onto a lurching horse’s reigns with sweaty hands.  He was trying to stop a loaded wagon as it rolled down a hill with the friction in his palms.  He was stopping a falling tree with his fingertips.  One of the tong handles, the one he’d been holding on to the whole time, actually bent a second in the force, and Max thought he might keep hold.  But the hand that had briefly moved to wipe the sweat from his face, lost its grip entirely. As one end of the tongs went flying, the other twisted harder.  Max felt the skin rub raw against the leather of the grip, pinching and twisting painfully, before mercifully the tongs slipped free.  

Ka-crash.  Woosh.  Bam.  Bam.  Bam.  The tongs and ingot moved freely as one, bouncing along the anvil before falling off the edge and striking the floor.  Sparks danced from the impact as the still hot metal hit the stone floor.  Only sheer luck kept the metal from hitting his father, who hadn’t even moved to dodge.  The shower of sparks left the heavy leather apron his father wore smoking and blackened.  Max groaned, kneeling down and moving to pick up the tongs with the least damaged hand.

“Max, father?” Zoey’s voice called from the next room over and a pair of small feet pounding on stone sounded as she hurried towards the forge.  Max barely registered the distraction as he gently moved his hurt hand to join the other gripping the tongs, trying to lift it back on the anvil before the metal cooled too much.

 Grunt.  The meaning of the sound was briefly lost on Max, before the woosh of slightly cooler air and the dance of shadow and firelight reminded him of what came next.  With a groan he looked up, seeing the hammer already prepared to descend onto the metal once more.  Panic flitted across his face, _No, don’t hit the anvil straight on._  It could have been worse, the hammer was aimed for the anvil, they weren’t doing bending or angling work where is father would hammer the metal over the edge of the anvil.  But the hammer was old, the anvil was solid, far more so than the heated ingot, and his father didn’t seem to be pulling back on his strike.  There was a good chance the hammer shaft might splinter or the leather grip might loosen.  Or the hammer might jolt free from his father’s grip and hit either of them, or worse, Zoey who was just then walking through the door a look of concern on her face.

Max surged upward, one hand still holding the tongs so the dangerously hot ingot didn’t bounce free.  Without thinking the other hand rose and met the hammer shaft mid-descent.  In spite of his crouch and unsteady stance, in spite of the force of the downward swing of his father, a blacksmith, who even in his reduced state still had enough strength to hammer for hours on end, in spite of the many reasons a young man, no matter his time spent working as apprentice in this forge, shouldn’t have been able to do what he did, he stopped the hammer mid swing, holding it against his father’s force with only a single hand.

Max’s eyes traced to the still hammer with a look of the betrayed, for a second angry that his gambit had succeeded.   _It’s normal.  It’s completely normal.  He’s tired, he’s been hammering all morning and I’ve just been holding things steady.  He probably realized the ingot had dropped at the last second and pulled up on his own swing.  I’ve been helping at the forge for three years, my arms are just getting stronger._  The litany of excuses played through his head and Max carefully kept his gaze from his father’s face or Zoey’s, looking at the floor, the ingot, his feet, anywhere but up at his family.  He could have checked to see if his father’s face really did reflect exhaustion or awareness.   _But what if it didn’t?_ _What if I really am that much stronger than…no stop it._

As soon as Max felt the force in the hammer waver and then lift, he dropped his upraised hand down to hold the tongs, his eyes naturally steering away from the visible indentations his fingers had left in the leather and the awkward bend in the metal tong handle-arm, where his one hand had almost managed to keep the ingot still in spite of the force of the mis-connected hammer blow twisting everything about.

There was a breath and reluctantly Max looked up at Zoey, but her face was calm, as if seeing her brother manhandle a descending smith hammer with one hand and casually hold a heavy iron ingot on tongs with his other were a normal occurrence. _Control Max.  Focus.  It’s one thing if your family sees it, but the other people.  They’ll get the wrong idea.  They won’t see a kid strong form working at the forge because his father needs help.  They’ll see witch-blood.  And then they’ll start talking about your mom again.  And you’ll get into fights.  And they’ll look at Zoey.  And then…_ Max shuddered, blocking the natural conclusion of his thoughts with a firm shake of his head.

His father just stood there, body still for the moment, breathing heavy.  Max looked up, but there was no horror, surprise, or even consternation.  Just slack blankness.  He was still in the rhythm of the forge, his mind only slowly coming  aware.  Slow to process the change in the room.  Slow at everything.   _Because of the Test._

Max’s eyes tracked down his father’s left arm, the one gripping the hammer more loosely, more tiredly.  The arm with a puckered angry scar between wrist and elbow that had nothing to do with forge work.  The arm with the angry red line of flesh that never healed right, couldn’t heal right after the poison they’d injected into it.  The arm that trembled now, slow but insistent, a motion that sometimes could sweep over his father’s entire body, causing his arms and head to jerk about till he dropped to the floor. _But not today, please._  For now, it was just a steady tremor from the fingertips of his father’s left hand to his shoulder.  Max wanted to pretend it was fatigue, but in his heart he knew better.  Even now.  Even years after the Test had transformed their father into the shell he was now, the morning work wouldn’t be enough to tire him to the point of shaking.  It was his father’s body failing bit by bit.  The damage to his nerves leaving them unable to hold still.

Zoey moved past Max, grabbing her father’s hand, her palms tiny compared to the smith hands she held, yet somehow managing to still the tremor, for just a moment.  

“Hey father.  Father.  The hammering is done for a bit.  It’s time to sit down and talk with me while I sew.” Zoey looked up at her father with a rehearsed smile.  “I’ve got a new story I learned from one of the books Friar Doorman gave me.  We can read it aloud together while I work, you always do the monster and knight voices better than I can.”

Max turned away.  He couldn’t do it like Zoey, couldn’t look up at their father, keeping calm and talking nonsense at him to draw him out of his quiet state.  He couldn’t hold his father’s hand so near the scar.  Couldn’t pretend this was all ok.   _It’s easier for Zoey, Max reasoned to himself, she doesn’t remember as much of him from before, she was still so young.  She doesn’t remember what it was like when he lost mom.  And then when that Inquisitor came and made him take that damned Test!_  Max remembered his father leaving, going to the Chapel, and coming back hours later in the night, his arm wrapped in bandages, the occasional treacherous drop of blood-stained liquid silver leaking out, his steps and face dull.  Inquisitor Spender had supported him, taking him through the door, carefully cleaning up the Quicksilver blood stains, and explaining that his father had taken the Test to prove he wasn’t Witch-Blood.  Max had nodded, listening to the highest authority of the village, the one who’d managed for the most part to calm the angry cries of “Witch-Blood” and vandalism that had hounded them for the days after the mob had come and taken his mom.  After they’d hung- _Don’t think about it.  Stop it._  Of course at the time he’d thought the Test was a quick thing.  Hadn’t realized what the tall blonde stranger had done to his father, until weeks, months later, when his father didn’t get better.  Just got worse and worse.  If he’d known then, that night, he’d have attacked the Inquisitor.  Hurled himself bodily at the man.  Even now, seven years later, he could barely stand the sight of the man that had done this to his father, in the name of ‘Faith,’ and soothing the crowd’s anger.  Only the fact that violence against the Inquisitor would bring the mob hounding for his blood and that of his sister kept him under control.  Keeping his sister safe was a mantra in his mind, helping him keep his distance from the Chapel.  The few times he met Inquisitor Spender in town that same mantra helped him keep it coldy civil, rather than the screaming clawing encounter he wanted to unleash.

“Max,” his father spoke groggily, like a man just waking up, “are we already done for the morning?”

“Yes father father,” Max said, careful to keep the only half-hammered ingot out of the smith’s sight.  Getting more work out of his father now would take too much time, to get him back into the rhythm, than it was worth.  Worse his father would probably be useless later tonight for the second of their daily turns at the forge.  They had to space the work out to accommodate his father’s condition.  

The order for horse-shoes would just have to be another day late.  They could finish pounding the ingot into a thin long rod tonight, and maybe tomorrow break out the chisel and chop it into smaller bits for making the individual shoes.  They’d been paid half upfront, so what they had would still be enough to keep eating.   _We’ll just have to stretch our food a little more to get by.  I can gamble on Iz bringing old bread for a snack for us with her when I get to the woods.  That means I can skip eating here and have it for dinner._  The idea of scrounging off a friend for help soured Max’s mood even as his stomach rumbled at the thought of day old bread.  He’d already skimped on his breakfast to make sure his father got enough to do the hard work. _If I was just a bit taller and stronger, I could do all of the work myself.  Of course if I did it all myself, the townsfolk would start talking about how someone my age shouldn’t be able to work the forge on his own.  Start whispering Witch-Blood._  The thought that he was already stronger than anyone who ate as little as he had any right to be, tickled at his thoughts, but he ignored the traitorous whisper with practiced ease.  

Max watched Zoey lead their father out of the smithy with small steps, smaller even than her childish stature needed, as she focused on letting their father pick his way with the deliberate care.

Max placed the already cooled-to-dark ingot back on the anvil and started smothering the fire.  No need to waste coals that they’d need later that night.  Coal cost money that could be spent on food, candles, and blankets, everything else that they needed to get by.

As the fire dimmed Max threw open a window to let the light in so he could see well enough to put away the equipment.  Cool air rushed in the open window, tugging fitfully at his short, damp hair and sending a chill down his spine, even as he welcomed the breeze.  The room got indescribably hot when the window was closed, but he’d decided years ago when he started helping, that it was safer to keep the windows closed while they worked.  He was afraid people would see how slow his father worked or how much of the detail and effort was being done by the mostly self-taught child-apprentice.  Even if they didn’t get suspicious at Max’s carefully restrained strength, they’d still lose confidence in his father.  They might try to entice a new blacksmith to come to town.  If that happened, Max wasn’t sure how they’d survive.  He might be able to apprentice to the new smith, but no apprentice made enough to support a family, certainly not an ailing father and a little sister.  

The sunlight peaked into the room, the angle of the light letting him know it wasn’t noon yet.   _So much work lost on one of my free days, with no lessons we could have made up the lost time on those horse shoes._  Max sighed and forced the resentment and disappointment from his mind.  He didn’t question Zoey’s decision.  She was the younger of them, but when it came to their father, she had a better feel for his strength and his moods.  And Max always wanted to push for a little more, as if he could coax his father’s old strength and spirit back if he could just get him working long and steady enough.  

Max slipped the hammer into its resting place between the smaller awl and the rounded hammer for plate work.  The tongs went next to the bellows and the poker for stirring the fire.  Satisfied he picked up his father’s discarded apron, and put it next to his smaller one near the door.  A quick sweep with the broom caught the ashes up and he surveyed the room as he finished, making sure everything was in order.  His eyes settled, as they always did when he was alone in the smithy, on the out-of-the way workbench on one side.  The only workspace that was covered with dust.  A small wire pulling vice, a set of tongs far more delicate than the ones he had been holding, and an array of picks and tools were still neatly arranged on it.  A slew of various shaped points and chisels all small and sharp, were organized by size.  It was a jeweler’s workspace, for handling the delicate work of shaping softer, precious metals into ornate designs.  It was his mom’s specialty, necklaces and rings, though his father had been able to do it as well when they were a team.  Of all the parts of the smithy, it had been Max’s favorite part as a child, watching them both pull glowing bits of gold and silver into wires, before braiding, shaping, and engraving them.  It had also been the most profitable part of their work, the few pieces that were made being sold to traders that came to town, sometimes visiting Mayview just to pick up a few new works from them.  The people of Mayview had loved the extra visits from merchants to their isolated town, even as they envied and resented the Pucketts for the extra money they made.  Back when they had enough to eat well, dress well, and the coals could burn out along with the candles if their parent’s felt like staying up late to work or Max wanted to read into the night.  How long since Zoey’s had a new dress and not just patched up some of Isabel’s hand me downs?   _How long since we had something to eat that wasn’t stretched to last days?  How long since Zoey and I just played?  For an entire day?  Or read past sundown?_

Max’s hands itched when he looked at the jeweler’s bench and that hopeful part of himself, the part he hated for misleading him so often whispered, _surely you remember some of the stuff your mom and father did, you watched them work at this bench all the time.  Father’s hands can’t hold still enough anymore, but he could pull the wires, and you, you could do the delicate braiding part.  How hard could it be?  You could make something that would really sell, not just enough to get by but enough to really live.  Or better yet to leave._  Max silenced the poisonous little voice with a listing of the cold hard facts.  Make something with what?  What precious metal did they have lying around?  And how much did he really remember from half-formed memories of being a child?  And who would buy it?  No wandering merchants came to Mayview asking after some of the Puckett work anymore.  No one wanted to be associated with possibly Witched goods.  Even if his father had been confirmed as free of Witch-Blood with the Test, his mom hadn’t, the mob had killed her well before Inquisitor Spender had arrived in town with his vials of strange silvery liquid poison for ‘proving the presence of Witch-Blood.’  And his mom had made all of the delicate stuff they still had on hand to sell, stuff that still sat in a small safe under the jewelers workbench.  Though why they bothered locking it up Max didn’t know.  No one would steal the stuff for fear of a curse the ‘Witch Puckett,” might have placed on them.   _You could melt down her stuff and make new things, claim your father made them.  No one knows just how bad his hands and mind are but you.  Everyone knows your father doesn’t have Witch-Blood.  He can’t.  He survived the Test._

Max grit his teeth bringing both hands to his face and trying once again to force the little voice in his head to shut up.  He didn’t want to think about the Test.  And he didn’t want to think about melting down his mom’s last creations.  The little pieces were all he had and if he messed them up, there’d be nothing left of her work, and nothing to sell one day.  The day they got out of here.  If they ever managed to save enough to leave this town and go to a place where Puckett jewelry wasn’t synonymous with Witched goods.  Besides some of those pieces, some of them were going to be Zoey’s dowry, or his wedding price, if anyone ever wanted to marry a Puckett that was.   _One day at a time, Max.  Food and clothes for winter now, finding a husband for your little sister, can wait.  Finding someone willing to slum it with a possibly tainted Witch-Blood like you can wait too.  After all who wants to be promised to a kid that might not live past his majority before being strung up by a mob?  Or might end up being Tested and winding up like…your father?_

Max surpassed the shudder.  He knew the Test hadn’t exonerated his sister or himself completely from the suspicion of Witch-Blood.  All it had done was buy them time.  Time for the town to forget the old accusations and move on.  Except the town never quite forgot.  Never stopped looking askance at every odd circumstance and occurrence before seeking out someone or something to blame.  The loss of Mayview’s priest, had brought the new Inquisitor and while he served in the town only as a regular Priest, no one ever forgot what he really was.  And it seemed no one could live in a town with an Inquisitor without thinking about Witches and Witch-Blood.  

For whatever private reasons, Inquisitor Spender refused to resume his regular duties seeking out heretics and Witches elsewhere and pass the town into the hands of a normal Priest.  And as long as the vexing man stayed, the threat of the Test stayed with him.  Maybe one day, when he finally left, people could finally calm down and move on.  Maybe Max could finally move on too.

 _Maybe if Isaac finally had a Dream, Spender would leave and let him take over.  Of course if Isaac has a Dream that means he really is a Sacred Blood and that means he’s one of them too.  Maybe it’d be better if he never Dreamed at all._  Max regretted the thought.  It felt traitorous to hope that his friend was a bastard child or an illegitimate foundling, rather than the child of the town’s late Priest.  Traitorous to take away even the ghost of a father from his friend.  Even more traitorous to hope against the thing he knew Isaac prayed and wished for.  But the thought of his friend really being of the Sacred Blood hurt.  Max had told himself it was not wrong to be of Sacred Blood.  That the Sacred Blood in general weren’t bad people.  After all Isaac’s father hadn’t done anything to incite the townsfolk against his mother in the years before his death.  Anything, except of course, having the ill-fortune to die in a storm and stir up the townsfolk suspicious paranoia.  But none of that had been Isaac’s fault, and like Max he’d lost a parent in those hectic days.  And they’d been friends even before.  The O’connor child and father welcome at the Puckett’s house for meals.  Back when they’d been prosperous.  Back when Max hadn’t hated the Faith.  Before the townsfolk fanatics had come for his mother and what little Faith and love Max had for the Blind Lady had died with her.  No matter how he talked himself around the topic and tried to rationalize the age old pain, it always came back to the fact that the Faith had been the excuse the town used to kill his mom, and therefore everything the Faith touched was tainted to Max.  The Faith was poisonous like the Quicksilver its Inquisitors used.

“Max, are you ok?” Zoey’s voice broke Max from his morose reprieve and he lurched away from the jewelers workbench he’d been standing distractedly in front of.  In his haste he almost tripped over the large monstrosity next to the workbench.  A horrifying looking metal assembly of scraps and spikes, made to look like some wrathful snake.  He hated the sculpture.  It seemed that no matter where he set it, it always seemed to be in a different place the next time he entered the room.  A place that usually was in front of his toe as he wandered the dark room in the morning or spiking up under his feet after he’d damped the fire at night and was trying blindly stumble to bed.

“Max, you got to watch out for Scrap.  You know he likes to move around and get underfoot.”  Zoey giggled as she described the imaginary antics of the lifeless sculpture.  The smile was so welcome on her normally reserved face that Max forgave the stupid statue, this once.  Zoey loved the thing, calling it a scrap-dragon, and inventing stories about it.  Max had no idea where that nickname had come from, since though he had no idea what a real dragon looked like, he was pretty sure it wasn’t a random, junked up snake-statue.  All he was sure of was that the thing had been one of his mom’s creations.  It was too ‘artistic’ and purposeless to serve any function and his father’s stuff had always been practical, unless he worked on a project with their mom and she let whimsy take over.  The facts that it might be one of his mother’s last little impractical creations and that Zoey loved it so, were all that saved it from a grisly death being dismantled piece-by-piece each morning and being used to make nails or fill some work order.  Especially when Max was busy hopping on his uninjured foot and glaring at it after smashing into it for the hundredth time as it ended up, somehow, not quite where he remembered bumping into it the last time.

“Well tell Scrap to watch out for me for once.” Max said playing along to keep Zoey smiling.  “Is there some reason you came in here other than to scare me into stepping on your pet statue?”

“Oh yeah,” Zoey said, her smile so wide and beautiful and somehow full of all the hope Max wished he could still feel, that it caused something in his heart to twitch painfully with envy.  “Here I thought you could take this with you today.”  She held out an apple for Max.

“Zo,” Max said, face scrunching.  “You know I don’t really like apples, you shouldn’t have bought it.  But since you did, you should eat it, you’ll enjoy it more anyway.”  Which was partly true, apples weren’t his favorite fruit by any measure, though they were still food, and he was hungry.  But part of him just wanted her to eat it for herself.  She was still growing and needed as much food as they could spare, she was already smaller than any of the other kids her age.   _Not that you aren’t young and in serious need of food to help you grow either, the treacherous little whisper in the back of his mind observed as he struggled to keep his stomach from growling._

“Oh we have plenty.  I stopped by the Chapel yesterday for Inquisitor Spender’s evening service.  I saw that they were finally ripening and I picked some.”

“You were at the Chapel for service and you stole apples from the Chapel yard,” Max’s voice was angry and cold and afraid all at once.  Zoey heard the sentiment, but mistook it for her grabbing the apples and not his greater fear of her being near the Chapel and Inquisitor Spender in general.  She was too young to remember the faces of the townsfolk when they came for their mom and she didn’t blame Inquisitor Spender for their father.  She seemed to believe that the Inquisitor had helped somehow.  That his Test was what kept them all safe, not what had reduced their father to…what he’d become.  She didn’t realize that the reason the town couldn’t move on, couldn’t let it go was because the Inquisitor was still there.  Sometimes Max wanted to shake the sense into her, to explain how all of this, everything they’d suffered could be blamed on the Blind Lady, the Faith, and the Inquisitor.  Yet at the same time, he knew it was safer for her to be seen at service, to be seen talking calmly and innocently to the Inquisitor, safer for them both that at least one of them appeared respectable and devout.  And their father still found the evening service calming.  Since Max refused to take him, Zoey was his only escort.  They were both too childlike, in Max’s opinion, one from damage to his mind, the other from genuine youth.  They couldn’t connect the dots and realize all their suffering, everything that had been inflicted on their family could be laid at the feet of blind Faith.

“I didn’t steal them.  They were just growing there and no one was charging for them.  Other kids had already picked some...” she continued in explanation.  Max’s disapproving glower finally got through even Zoey’s smile and her face fell as she continued, her voice taking on a contrite and apologetic tone. “Well I just thought…we could stretch out our food if we ate some apples.  And Isaac,” she threw the name out as a charm to ward off her brother’s censure.  He might hate the Chapel and he might not like it when she talked about the Inquisitor, but Isaac at least was usually a safe topic.  “Isaac saw me trying to pick them, and said it was ok.  That anyone who wanted could pick some.”  Her voice turned sad a second as she remembered some disappointment, “A lot of them had already been picked, and the ones I had weren’t very good, I bit one and it was sour.  But Isaac said the kids were picking them too soon and dropping the bad ones on the ground because there weren’t any good ones in easy reach places.  Then he told me about his favorite spots, where he knew there were always some ripening faster.  And he climbed up higher than the other kids usually go and picked a bunch of the ripe ones for me.  He made promise to eat them all with you.”  She threw that last bit out with an evasive half-smile as she saw the last of her brother’s glower waver to resignation.  He reached out, taking the apple with exaggerated care as if still expecting it to be as poisonous as the apple in that story with the witch, the mirror, and the overly-fair daughter.  

“Fine, as long as Isaac said it was ok,” Max said grudgingly.  He was tempted to eat it right there, but was afraid that if he got a taste of food he’d demolish it in seconds.  Then Zoey might try to make him eat another.  Just because they’d gotten free apples, didn’t mean he needed to eat them all in a single sitting and waste their windfall.  Though it did mean they might not be as strained by the morning’s delay as he feared.   

“Speaking of Isaac,” Zoey said, her spirits already back to normal now that her brother had apparently forgiven her spur of the moment apple-picking, “shouldn’t you go meet him?  It’s a free day and the work here is done for the morning.  Usually you, Isabel, and he go play in the woods when we have a free day.”

“We don’t play in the…who told you we go into the woods?  You should never go into the woods.  The woods are scary.  And bad.” Max tried to keep the panic from his voice.  The last thing he needed was for people to talk about them playing in the woods.  Sure everyone knew Isabel wandered into the woods, but her and her grandfather’s house was farthest from the town, already, practically as close to the woods as you could get.  No one else ever wandered into the woods.  Except for the woodcutter, Johnny’s father. Max felt his lip curl scornfully, of course not even Johnny was allowed to follow when the woodcutter  went chopping, and the woodcutter never stayed out past midday, always back well before the evening birds started singing.  Max and his friends had stayed out far longer, at least lately.  Ever since Max had found out that the woods at night weren’t quite as dangerous with their new friend.  Still everyone in town knew the woods were where scary, weird things happened.  And scary and weird equated to ‘Witchy’ things to the townsfolk.

“Max,” Zoey said her face serious, “Who do you think sews and cleans up your coat when you get back from playing?  There’s no way you run into real briar-sticker bushes in town, they are always weeded out as soon as they start to grow.  So go play with your friends and I won’t tell anyone.  I already gathered the eggs and did the other chores this morning.”

“Zo, you didn’t have to,” Max started but Zoey stamped her small foot and put a hand on each hip.

“Max.  You worked all morning.  And all last night.  Go.  Play.  I want to have fun reading time with father, but you just always sit in the back and snort or look at us funny when we use voices for the characters so I don’t want you around listening in.”

Max frowned in argument.  “I don’t make fun of…,” his voice trailed off in the face of Zoey’s disbelieving expression.  “Fine.  I’m going.  I’m going.  I’m gone.”

Max swept out the front door, grabbing his grey-black cloak contritely, once Zoey threw a parting scold about the weather turning colder.

Outside he scrambled through town, keeping the cloak bundled tightly and his face down.  He knew it made him look surly.  Angry.  But the truth was he was angry.  He couldn’t look a single adult in the face without thinking about whether or not they had been part of the mob that had come from his mom.  Somehow, the horror, the memories of the night always blurred out the faces.  He couldn’t remember who had been there, though he wished he could.  The killing hadn’t been sanctioned by the Faith, indeed no member of the Sacred Blood had been in the town when it happened, since Isaac’s father had died the night before and Inquisitor Spender had not yet been summoned to calm the townsfolk down and solve the mystery of the dead Priest.  There weren’t always punishments for an unsanctioned Witch killing, but since no one had technically been able to prove his mother was a Witch, _because she wasn’t,_ no one wanted to risk being accused of killing an innocent if it turned out neither Max or Zoey were Witch-Blood.  That thought sometimes made Max want to risk the entire Test himself, to walk up to Inquisitor Spender and demand to be Tested, in spite of his age and the fact that he’d turn out like his father if he lived at all, just to prove his mother was innocent.  Just to prove Zoey was safe and maybe, inspire the Inquisitor to hunt down the guilty culprits in town. Not that Inquisitor’s were responsible for hunting down regular people for mob behavior.  No, even if Max became the proof they were all wrong it wouldn’t do any good.  And then Zoey would have no one to help her take care of both their father and him.   _And of course there’s always the chance they were right.  Then what would the Test do to you?  And what would happen to Zoey if they had proof you were Witch-Blood!_  Max ignored the poisonous little voice of doubt as steadfastly as he had ignored the misleading voice of hope earlier.  They both had no place in his life anymore.  Hope and doubt both killed you in small tiny bits.  Max didn’t have many bits to spare.

At last his feet carried him to the side of town where the Chapel stood, standing proud and tall over the other buildings, its front and sides nestled between various fruit bearing trees.  Sure proof of Zoey’s story, a few kids hovered around the apple trees, tempted on their free day, to idle picking and tossing fruit at each other.  Fruit that they should be letting grow so the hungry could eat it.  Max growled, but didn’t get any closer to the Chapel.  He refused to cross the small side square and enter the Chapel’s little corner.  Instead he resentfully glared at the kids, wasting food and time when he had to save both so carefully.  One hand slipped into a trouser pocket and pulled out the apple, which he bit into it with a savagery that had the adults walking by stepping away.  Too late he calmed himself, trying his hardest to conceal the anger and resentment, and make it look less like he was glaring at the children and the Chapel and more like he was just happy standing where he was.  He leaned against a stone wall and finished the apple with restraint, his eyes lowered, but watching the Chapel doors intently.

Soon enough a shock of red-orange hair, somehow standing stiffly upward in spite of its length, peaked out the door, a pair of electric blue eyes below it inspecting the square, before catching his gaze.  In a far too obvious expression, Isaac nodded once in his direction and then towards the opposite side of the square.   _He’s so bad at being inconspicuous,_ Max thought as he groaned.  With a far more carefree and innocent move, Max stood away from the wall, stretching and seemingly at random, started walking out of the square in the direction Isaac had nodded in.

Across the square, Isaac rushed out the door, shutting it behind him and looking left and right in such an obvious manner that people couldn’t help but look at him as he shuffled off in a clear hurry that drew eyes.  He moved in the same direction but on the opposite side of the street, one hand idly scratching at the neck of his tonic, in such a blatant display of nerves that Max could barely suppress a louder groan.  Once he caught up to Max, he cut his speed abruptly, going so far as to actually match steps with Max across the street, for all the world making it clear he was pacing Max.  As they walked, in tandem but on opposite sides of the street, Max idly stretched, every now and then stopping to look at something while checking behind them.  When he was finally satisfied that none of the kids from the Chapel square were following them, and that no immediate adult seemed to be paying attention, he finally crossed the street to Isaac’s side.

“Seriously, Isaac,” Max said his expression disproving even as Isaac’s brightened at his approach.  Isaac stopped walking completely one arm reaching out to draw Max in with a hug of greeting and Max ducked it irately as he grabbed Isaac’s arm and turned, dragging him along quickly.  “You couldn’t have been more obvious about that exit if you tried.”

“Well why am I trying to be unobvious about it?” Isaac whined.  “Why do we have to be sneaky about hanging out all of the sudden?”

Max released Isaac, who was finally keeping pace now that Max had started them walking.  Max ran his now free hand through his hair in frustration before growling out the explanation for their odd rendezvous, “Because we are going to the woods.  The woods Isaac.  The scary, ‘Witchy,’ Woods.  To meet Isabel and a wolf-boy.”  

Isaac whipped his head around, making sure no one heard, his face panicking before he turned to hush Max, his face now the one showing disapproval.  “Shhhh.  What if someone heard you?”

Max felt a bit of red on his face, but he pretended his slip had been deliberate, projecting confidence, “There’s no one to hear me,” a quick surreptitious peek over his shoulder confirmed the boast and Max’s confidence became genuine.  “And there’s no one to hear me because we weren’t walking together back where everyone was watching.  Because people only ever really get to talking and watching when they see any of ‘us’…” the bitterness in Max’s voice when he said ‘us’ made it clear how much he resented the special attention, he, Isaac, Isabel, and his sister got, “when they see us together.”  In his head Max thought, _it’d be a lot less to worry about if I really did stop hanging out with you and Isabel.  Then people might leave Zoey and I alone._ Max regretted the thought.  Other than himself, who else did Isaac and Isabel even have in this town?  Neither of them had parents, or even a sibling as he did.  Isabel’s grandfather hardly counted as family.  The man was harder than the iron Max’s father hammered  at the smithy, and the iron was likely warmer and more comforting too.  Max refused to believe Isaac’s delusional stories about the fatherly and friendly side of Inquisitor Spender.

“Do you want to just stop hanging out with us then,” Isaac’s voice seemed pained but resigned, as if the thoughts in Max’s head were also in his own.  Max was stunned for a moment, his face reddening with guilt at being caught, even if Isaac hadn’t truly realized the accuracy of his words, considering such thoughts.  “I know it would probably be safer for Zoey and you.  You certainly don’t attract as many comments as we do.”

“No Isaac, I don’t want to stop hanging out with you guys,” Max felt a little better when he realized his reassuring words were true.  “I’m not going to let some stupid F-“ at the last minute Max remembered who he was talking to and cut himself off before saying Faith, “fear, er, stupid fears control me or choose my friends for me.”

Isaac stood a little straighter beside him as they walked and Max finally threw an arm around his friend’s neck in proper greeting.  The last houses fell behind them, and they reached the edge of one of the smaller cornfields, the only one between the town and the woods on this side of Mayview.  Max cut sideways abruptly pulling both himself and Isaac into the cornfield in a flash.  Now safe from observation completely, they both grinned and ran through the field, bursting out the far side onto the final calm expanse of smooth green grass before the Woods.  In front of them maybe ten feet from the edge of the cornfield, the grass abruptly changed consistency, as if by magic.  The smooth, sheep-cropped grass abruptly became wild and tall, broken by weeds and wild-flowers of dozens of varieties, and then a few feet farther, bushes rose and then the trunks of trees.  At the line where the grass changed from groomed to wild, Max and Isaac stopped a second, flashing each other challenging grins, before racing across and off into the woods.

* * *

Back at the last house before the cornfield, the ancient Widow VonPrincipa stood from where she’d been pressed against the stonewall, her grey and green cloak a match for the moss covered stone she leaned against, having until her movement rendered her nearly invisible.  It was a feeling she liked, blending in.  It made it easier to watch other people and listen into their gossip.  And Von Principa loved gossip.  The things her neighbors said to each other when they thought no one was listening were so lovely to hear.  And the things they did when they thought no one was watching, such a delight so see.  The only thing she liked better than knowing all the naughty little things everyone else was up to, was spilling those dirty little secrets later and exposing all the faithless, horrible, petty neighbors for all their flaws.  After all, no one was as principled and upstanding as VonPrincipa, and everyone needed the occasional reminder of their place, beneath her that is.  She was the pillar Mayview rested upon, the upstanding citizen all others should emulate.  That’s why she was out here today.  She’d heard that Mr. Garcia and Missus Baxter might be stepping out and engaging in…unseemly behaviors…even though neither had been wedded.  So she’d picked her favorite snooping cloak and gone to Vigil at the Chapel.  After it ended, she’d only stayed long enough to make sure that the embarrassment of a Priest’s son wasn’t slacking on his Vigil and all of the pious neighbors were in attendance as they should be, before slipping out herself and coming to this very spot.  Because, VonPrincipa knew all the sneaky places in town, and she knew the cornfields were where people went to hide from prying eyes.  If Mr. Garcia and missus Baxter really were…canoodling, the crone shivered in anticipation, she was sure she’d catch them in the act of sneaking into the cornfield eventually.

Thus, it was quite a pleasant surprise, when VonPrincipa’s little net caught something else, a puzzle even more interesting than two town elders acting like rutting teenagers.  She watched the path around the cornfield carefully, eyes trailing to where she’d seen the Smith’s son and the old Priest’s boy had vanished.

_Are those two...doing what everyone else does in that cornfield?  Surely not.  Even if he is an utter failure as far as Sacred Blood goes, he’s still the Priest’s son.  Even he’d do better than to…before marriage...and with another boy…and that boy!  Unless…what if that’s why the Blind Lady hasn’t spoken to him in Dreams?  What if that other boy is corrupting him?  Taining his poor Blood and leading him astray._

VonPrincipa’s beady little eyes peered down her over long beak of a nose as she waited and watched.  She could see three sides of the cornfield clearly from her vantage point, the reason she’d chosen it, and the only side she couldn’t see was the woods.   _If they are just sneaking through they’d come out one of those three sides eventually.  If they don't then they are still in the field...doing things.  The only other explanation is they've left out the fourth side, into the Woods.  Surely they aren't going in there.  Unless.  Oh that’d be almost as interesting as if they are doing unspeakable things in the cornfield.  I’m going to have to keep my eye on those two.  Something is up.  Something awful.  Something naughty.  Something….interesting._  The old widow’s smile turned up at the edges and a hint of eager malice colored her expression as he rubbed wrinkled hands together in excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to the readers, and more to IAmWhelmed who endures my maddening notes and flights of fancy during our first collaboration. ^_^


	4. Something in the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed muses on himself and what he deems to be his pack, all while attempting the quell the building anticipation in Isabel to learn magic and become a true witch.

“ _Running through the meadow grass, clover-scent is what you track,_

_Winter nights, sleep in warm piles, air thick with musk of pack_

_Happy scents from carefree times, they're the easist to tell,_

_A wolf's not a wolf, eager at play, unless he remembers smells._

_Run in fright, from stinky bear, breath coming out in whines_

_Alone at night, no pack in sight, lost in miles of odorous pines_

_Scared scents from lonely times, they're the worst ones to tell,_

_A wolf's not a wolf, brave when afraid, unless he remembers smells_

_Coppery blood, filling the nose, while you whimper loud in pain,_

_Tired and hungry, belly growls low, all scents are lost save rain,_

_Saddest scents from lowest times, they're the hardest to tell,_

_A wolf's not a wolf, tough when tested, unless he remembers smells_

_Sweat and salt, tangy sharp, as you chase your fleeing prey,_

_Rival wolf, stranger scent, protect home, and drive it away_

_Anger scents from wildest times, they're the strongest to tell,_

_A wolf's not a wolf, strong to the last, unless he remembers smells_

_~A Wolf's not a Wolf, Unless He remembers (Author Unknown)_

 

Ed licked the remains of his pot pie, nibbling at what tiny pieces of bread and meat remained. The air carried a heaviness, like the meadow was holding its breath in anticipation. Ed felt it along his nerves, his nose, all of his senses. Every part of him told him that the strange surrealness, the disturbance was centered around the slim, but unimaginably powerful girl sharing the clearing with him. Isabel stood across the clearing, hands postured in front of her, fingers stretched and clenched then stretched again. Nothing seemed to be happening, but he could feel the oppressive “feeling” in the air changing, swelling, moving towards “something.” A change in the wind. He could smell it.

As Ed swallowed the last crumb, Isabel bit her lip and closed her eyes. Seconds later Ed could tell that something really was happening, that some invisible barrier had been breached. The air around him swayed from side-to-side as if Isabel’s control was wavering- which it probably was. Her abilities only reached so far, and she just wasn’t powerful enough to do anything but make a light breeze. 

“Izzy?” She twitched at the sound, but otherwise she didn’t acknowledge that he’d said anything. Even so, he knew she was listening. Isabel once told him that women were supposed to be nature’s multitaskers, so she probably heard him right? Still she could get so caught up in the magic that she lost track of things. Like not getting caught doing that magic in front of her other two friends. Ed reminded her of that ever-looming problem, hoping the reminder might make her stop. Whatever she was trying to do didn’t seem to be working, it just seemed to be frustrating her. “Max and Isaac should be here soon! Maybe you should stop for now?”

Isabel exhaled heavily and opened one eye to peek at him. Ed returned her stare with a gentle smile and a small wave of his hand, thinking she’d decided to stop. Her laughter proved him wrong. With a lurch of surprise and a flip in his stomach, his body lifted an inch off of the ground, his sitting position wobbling unsteadily as his arms flailed trying to maintain his balance.. He yelped as the wind tickled his ears, playful gusts circling around him like invisible, but surprisingly solid rings- all pressure and no metal. His eyes found Isabel’s which were dancing with amusement, even as her brow remained furrowed in concentration, and she smiled at the nervous expression undoubtedly covering his face. He hadn’t seen a lot of that smile lately, so the discomfort of floating, even the sharp drop to the ground when Isabel’s power gave out, none of it fazed him nearly as much as it should have. The smile was a rare treasure worth the loss of dignity and brief pain. If he were human, he’d probably be feeling the hard drop onto his tailbone later, but being a werewolf had its advantages.

He inspected his rump and the suddenly firm ground again and suspiciously. By the time he glanced up from the ground, her smile was gone again. She looked annoyed- angry even. That wasn’t exactly rare to see anymore.

“Sometimes…I just…” Isabel started, but then stopped frowning and rubbing a hand against her forehead. Sometimes after her attempts at spells her head seemed to bother her.

Ed didn’t ask for her to explain the frustration. He already had a pretty good idea, and while he knew better than to a assume anything when it came to witches, or at least the only one he’d ever met, he knew she’d explain herself when she was good and ready. He dusted himself off as she began walking in circles, pacing around like a madman. Of course, considering she wanted to be a witch even knowing what the villagers might do to her for it, she kind of was a little mad. Finally she stopped turning her frustrated gaze on Ed and finding the words to finish her outburst. “I should be able to do magic, Ed. Real magic. Spells. REAL witchcraft. I’m a witch, I know it. Grandfather knows it.”

“Well…aren’t you? Sometimes you make the wind all blowy when you try real hard. And you just...lifted me into the air” Ed waved the index finger of one hand beneath the closed fist of his other hand, miming the fist rising into the air before dropping into the open palm of his other hand with a smack to remind her of the fact that she also dropped him. Perhaps a bit hard. 

Isabel smirked at the hand play, before her expression became grave once more as she crossed her arms. “So, I can make a breeze if I try. You can do that if you wave your hand real fast too! It’s not very impressive.” She kicked a pebble hard enough to make a small dent in the bottom of one of the many trees that surrounded them. 

“How about when you make me sleepy.” Ed grumbled, remembering the last time she’d done that, muttering something as she innocently patted his head, and suddenly he just wanted to transform into a wolf, walk a circle three times chasing his tail, and lie down for a long nap. So he had. While she laughed at him the whole time. It had been very undignified.

Again Isabel smiled before her frown returned, “Yeah, if I feel really tired and think sleepy thoughts at someone else, sometimes I can make them feel tired too. But that’s not Witch craft…that’s tricks, little stuff!”

Ed wanted to point out that normal people couldn’t do these tricks so they had to be special. But he knew from past experience that wasn’t what Isabel wanted to hear. These rants of hers weren’t rare. She wasn’t happy and all the little spells and games might make her smile, but it didn’t fix the real problem. It was with a twist in Ed’s gut that he admitted that. He wished there was something he could do to fix it, but with the barrier between the village and the forest up, there was no way to get more information about witches. He wasn’t allowed to talk about it to Max and Isaac, Isabel had made that clear the first time he caught her doing a spell. And the three of them were all the regular contact he had with normal people who might explain witches and why she felt she needed more. 

“Witches are supposed to be…well so awesome that the Faith has Inquisitors dedicated to fighting and hunting us. They train and master weapons and tricks of their own to be able to stand up against to us. But there’s an Inquisitor in this village and I’m sure that if Spender ever figured out what I was he could just…” Isabel mimed a violent death, seemingly including knives and possibly flames and sticks.

Ed growled, a low menacing sound, and the hair on his head stood a little straighter. He knew she was joking, and he didn’t mean to react so obviously, but the instinct to protect the pack was deep. After years of living in the wild on his own, it was surprising how quickly the three Mayview teens had changed from oddity to family in his mind. For a second his skin prickled as if the very thought of the threat was enough to bring out the transformation to wolf. The thought of anybody hurting Isabel- or any of his friends for that matter- it was enough to get him on edge. Of course he knew that every second they were there with him was a chance they might all be exposed or caught, and that was in itself a danger for them and for himself. Not that he was worried about himself. In spite of all of that it didn’t make him any less happy when they came to visit or any less sad when they left. Maybe he was a selfish little wolf. Or maybe, he liked to tell himself, he knew that if any trouble came of them being with him he’d be right there to fix it, all they had to do was get across the barrier and into the woods and he could take care of anyone who followed. After all, He wasn’t worried about himself.

“Easy Wolf-boy,” Isabel said, moving over to where he sat, and joining him on the ground. She let one of her hands run through his hair, catching him completely by surprise. It was embarrassing how quickly it calmed him, as she smoothed his ruffled hair back down. “I can handle him. I may not have magic, but I have the Witch-Blood. And Grandfather has taught me how to take care of myself if someone threatens me.” Isabel mimed a quick one-two punch. He barely dodged when one of her over exuberant swings went wide. “He may not be able to teach me magic…” Isabel’s voice dropped and her eyes hunted the ground. Even her hands fell to her side and her shoulders pulled in at the outloud admission. Disappointment. Grief. He smelled it on her. “That was supposed to be my mom’s job.” Her voice was small at that revelation, she continued slower, “Or some other female relative. Or even the family spellbook, the one I’m supposed to inherit, our Grimoire. But…it was with my mom and dad in the mill when the fire took them. Grandfather swears it was destroyed in the fire with them.”

Ed moved to stand in front of her- an attempt to get her attention off the ground and off the subject and onto something else so she could actually be happy. With him. Around him. In his general area. Ed leaned in, hands awkward for a second as the simple human interaction confused him. He knew he was supposed to do something comforting with his hands...but his memories of his mom soothing his worries were so faint, so old, so eclipsed by his time as a wolf that the normal gestures escaped him. Instead he went with the instinctual response, dropping to all fours for purchase and bumping his own head against Isabel’s downcast one. There was little to no reaction at first and he continued to crouch, pressing his head against hers hopefully, beginning to wonder if she would ever look up. Eventually she pulled her head away, but only to move it back again, butting him back, much to his relief. Thinking now was a good time to talk, not just wolf, Ed cast his eyes to the floor as he searched for something to say now that he had her full attention. “So you don’t have the book. Your Grandfather teach you something at least, right?”

Ed winced after saying it. But that's what parents were supposed to do? Teach you everything? It was why he didn’t know enough. He hadn’t had parents long enough to teach him anything. Ed suppressed a whine in his throat. He just wasn’t sure if it had been the right thing to say. If it was that easy she already would have done it right? But maybe not, there was so much he didn’t know. At least her Grandfather taught her somethings. He definitely had taught her to fight. Isabel could defend herself if anything happened. That wasn’t to say he and Max and Isaac wouldn’t come running if she was in danger. The other three might not realize it but they gave off all the scents and protective behaviors of a pack that would rush to each other’s defenses. But he also knew she could at least hold out until they got there. Seeing as his suggestion hadn’t helped at first, Ed tried a new approach questing weakly again with his words. Words were so much less effective than smells and headbutts and contact.

“You’ve figured out so much already, maybe you can figure this out too. Do you even need magic? I’ve seen you fight and move. You’re faster than anyone! And stronger!” Isabel muffled a small giggle under her breathe. If he was in wolf form his tail would be wagging at that small response. He was getting to her. “You’re even stronger than Max and whenever he's not with you guys or lessons he's working, hard. I can tell. He smells like burning iron, ash, and sweat. A lot of it. Like all three are embedded in his skin.”

“That’s the thing Ed,” Isabel sighed, “Being able to fight is part of my inheritance, sure, but it’s the smallest part. All Witch-blood have it! I’m a girl, a witch. We are supposed to be able to do so much more. That’s why the men are supposed to train to fight faster and stronger to protect the witches. Because we are supposed to be doing something better, bigger.”

“But you don’t need their protection!” Ed frowned, knowing there was something wrong with that idea. Everyone should be able to protect themselves, and limiting yourself because of your gender...it was wrong. All wolves could fight, and protect, and help each other. His eyes were wide and his smile turned down as he frowned and tried to understand the oddity.. “Isabel. Do you wish you were weaker?”

“No,” Isabel pounded one hand into the other a fierce and proud scent wafting off her that made the wolf in Ed want to howl and run with her far and fast, chasing prey together, hunting, and...Ed focused on her words and blocked the scent and its effect on him. “I don’t want someone to protect me. I just wish I could…you know…be all I’m supposed to be. Be a proper Witch. Make my mom proud.” Isabel turned away from him, then, arms crossed so he couldn’t see her fists shaking. But still his sharp eyes still saw the slight tremble in her shoulders. “What if she was this great Witch, this super strong one, and I’m falling short? I mean someone had to set the barrier around Mayview. The one you can’t pass through.”

Ed didn’t bother hiding his whine this time. The barrier he knew all too well. One hand reached up to his nose, rubbing it in the memory of past pain. He remembered the many times he’d rammed into the invisible barrier, almost every time face first. Many rabbits and squirrels along the wood’s edge had learned the easiest way to escape him was to run to where the grass grew short and smooth, and for some reason the chasing wolf would stop dead in its tracks with a pained whimper and a smashing sound. 

Ed didn’t try to hide the frustration in his voice. “Why’d you want to be proud of something like that? I hate that thing! All it does is keep me from seeing you guys, or catch rabbits, or steal my own chicken pies, or,” Isabel’s turned to him, her smile slightly teasing at the list of his grievances. Ed tried for something more serious, “Or...or it keeps me from being able to help you guys when other people are being bad.”

_That barrier probably saves your life Ed. The townsfolk would take about three seconds of seeing you act, and even if you never turned into a wolf, they’d know something was up and throw you on a fire too._ The thought was so frank, so human, Ed almost didn’t realise it was his own thought. The look in Isabel’s face, like she was holding something back, told him he was probably not the only person to realize it. Still, Ed banished the intruding human thought. Wolves weren’t scared. They were confident. That’s how they survived. They could do anything, go anywhere, stalk any place. Ed was sure from his watching at the forest's edge, that he could blend in amongst the townsfolk. How hard could it be to pass as a regular boy? In the month since he’d met his friends, he’d learned to blend in with them very easily. Sure every now and then they laughed or looked at him oddly when he sniffed them to say hello, or lounged across them on the ground rather than sit awkwardly straight. Ed must have not been paying attention, forgetting how important ‘constantly talking,’ was to humans, because Isabel had started speaking, her voice sounding awkward to his sensitive ears. _Is it my fault? I should have said more and not got distracted thinking._ “Actually Ed, about Max and me fighting. I had a question. You’ve wrestled with him too right?” Ed felt relief, maybe it was her question that had her sounding off and she wasn’t just trying to change the topic.Ed nodded with a vigorous smile, immediately distracted. It was something boys and wolves did, so every part of him enjoyed it. The opportunity to try and dominate a friend, nipping, carefully, smacking, and kicking, showing off all your tricks to try and win. And the thrill of victory when someone submitted, and then it was all head butts and pats to let each other know it was all in fun, reinforcing the feeling of friends- a pack. Although Ed did worry sometimes he was too puppy-like and exuberant, rather than a proper grown up wrestler. Max, Isaac, even sometimes Isabel would finish the wrestling looking at him oddly, and the slight scent of nervousness would come off them. It was embarrassing that they’d think he’d lose control, he was so careful not to break skin or do real damage. But maybe they didn’t understand how careful he was being. Only once after a fight had he left scratch marks, three of them on Max. They’d healed quickly enough, but he’d been so embarrassed he’d shifted into wolf and hid his head under his tail and paws. Max had just laughed it off, but he could smell the worry on all of them, just knew he’d messed up..

“Does it feel like Max… holds back?” Ed raised an eyebrow, not exactly getting her meaning. She shrugged, but that didn’t help much and Ed just continued to frown, waiting for her to explain. “I mean Max is strong. Like blacksmith-in-training strong if that’s a thing,” she glanced around to make sure Max and Isaac hadn’t yet arrived. Ed could have told her they still weren’t close, a good sniff of the clearing said they weren’t near yet. Which was odd, they were late. But it wasn’t something to worry about. Ed was the most dangerous thing in the woods that he knew of, and they could handle anything else that might be about. And it wouldn’t be the first time they came late, usually with Max smelling more strongly of metal and smoke than usual or Isaac reeking of frustration and incense. Over his thoughts, Isabel’s voice continued and he focused on listening rather than scenting the air for the missing friends. “I swear sometimes, Ed...sometimes I swear I land a punch on Max and he… sort of pauses a second and then he falls back- like he has to remember to feel the blow.”

“Are you saying he lets me...us win?!” Ed frowned. As much as he disliked being a werewolf and being stuck outside of a barrier because he was a werewolf, he liked his strength. He liked being able to fight and win. The idea that they were holding back and he wasn’t strong, couldn’t be strong for the pa- his friends stung. What if he wasn’t as strong as he thought he was? Surely he’d have smelled it if they were all just humoring him.

“No, I’m not saying that just” Isabel must have heard the hurt in his voice, she tried to explain in a rush “I just wonder- I mean maybe the town was right about his mom.”

“You don’t want to talk about his mom Isabel,” Ed mumbled, not catching what she meant but focusing on explaining the very serious mistake that would be to her. After all she didn’t have his sense of smell, and that made it his job to help keep the peace between his friends and warn her how bad an idea talking about Max’s mom might. After all he’d made that mistake, the least he could do for his friends would prevent them from asking it as well.. “I've asked him a few times,” Ed confessed in embarrassment, “Every time I ask he gets all quiet and frowny and smells sad. And then his smell gets spiky and angry.”

Isabel frowned at him, for the first time that day turning her full focus on him repeating his words incredulously. “He smells sad? You can smell what we are feeling?” Suddenly a hint of embarrassment shot through him, even though Ed had no idea why. Of course he could smell how they felt. It was so obvious. It was more surprising to him that they couldn’t smell it, but then again he’d learned the first time he’d met Max that their sense of smell was terrible. 

Ed tried to explain it, searching for the words that were so odd to him. “Not quite that easy, just“ Ed’s face burned up as he plopped to the ground, legs crossed with his hands clenching at the material of his pants Isaac had brought him, insisting that in boy form he couldn't be naked. He always took them off when his friends left, so they wouldn't get damaged and he didn’t have to worry as much when shifting. They were annoying, but they gave his hands something to do when he was confused and that was good. And they were a gift from a packmate so he had to enjoy them. While he searched for words he avoided eye contact. “When you get mad or angry, you get sweaty and your hearts beat faster, and you all smell like…” Isabel waited patiently, and Ed shot her a look of gratitude for letting him take his time with words, they could be so hard sometimes and it frustrated him to be so bad at it compared to his friends. “You smell like I just tripped while chasing a rabbit, or bumped a paw…er…hand into a thornbush. I can’t put it into...there aren’t words for it, except smelling you guys makes me remember things. And then I remember how I felt when I smelled those things. Like when Max feels sad...I remember..I....”  
Isabel took a seat beside him, her face taking a look of wonder on it, that was reinforced by the amazed scent coming off of her. Ed would usually have smiled at that, playing up his scent skills, bragging about this awesome thing he could do the best out of his friends, but he missed it. He was too busy thinking about Max’s smell when he was sad and what that smell brought up in him. His hands started to fumble in the grass and dirt rather than his pants, and his gaze focused on the little darts of movement as disturbed bugs fled his raking fingers. Isabel’s wondering scent started to shift to worried, but he barely noticed. “So…when I asked Max about his mom…I smell…not tears…but.” Ed growled when the words didn’t come up, but it was a soft growl, less frustrated than usual by his failure to express the pained scent, and more unhappy at having to think about it at all. “I smell him and I remember when I was younger and being cold and afraid and...alone. And staring at the lights of the village at night, but unable to get any closer because of the barrier. Just frustrated and.... And I hear the families talking and eating from their homes, but it’s all out of reach and I can’t do anything about it. And I think about how I can’t remember my own mom or father, but I know I should, and- He smells like I did then, if that makes sense. It’s not a happy smell- not something I like smelling.”

Isabel sighed arm slipping an arm around him and rubbing the small of his back in small soothing circles. It felt good and if Ed had been any happier he would have shifted into a wolf and rolled onto his back so she’d rub his tummy in those small circles as well. Ed could smell her own loneliness, and realized, even if she didn’t have the sense of smell to bring the memories as it did for him, this talking thing they all did, was sort of like scenting the emotions. She was thinking about something similar, her parents or Max’s mom, or maybe even thinking about a crying wolf-kid huddling in the bushes. It was a wonderful feeling, being understood. It didn’t make her sad smell go away, or his sad feelings go away, but it made it easier, better knowing he was understood. 

The comfort wasn’t new to Ed. It was why he was so attached to having people to share with again. It was the best thing ever having people who he could talk and share with. If Isabel could smell him right now, she’d have smelled, pain, contentment at being comforted, and joy at the fact that he had a pack to share all of it with after so long. He was sure he smelled like the time, he’d run into a porcupine. Oh porcupines. Even knowing how much they stung, he wanted to taste them so bad. It just had to taste good if it was that spiky, why would something that tasted bad need to make itself hard to eat? And once, while playing hide and seek with his friends, he’d smelled one and chased it. He was so sure he could figure out a way to get at the meaty bits, and he had time, his friends were so bad at finding him when he hid. But instead of a treat he’d ended up stung all over the face and feeling miserable. There was the pain in the scent. Then he’d turned to human and tried to pull them out before any of his friends saw, but his hands couldn't grip right and pull out of his own face. It had been frustrating but then Isaac had found him, and instead of laughing or scolding, he’d sat down next to Ed and carefully, talked to him, oozing sympathy smells and calm as he pulled them out. There was the comfort scent. And Ed had been so happy he’d shifted back to wolf and leapt on Isaac, licking his face repeatedly to express his gratitude. Which of course had caused Isaac’s scent to go mortified and he’d screeched so loudly. Ed had been sure he’d done something awful, but then Isabel and Max had run into the scene, and instead of smelling horrified, they’d just laughed and smelled so happy. And the blending of the happy, Isaac’s own rueful scent finally mingling to acceptance and happy as well, had just made him feel like he belonged, so much, it was the joy in his scent.  
Of course later, Isabel had explained when it was just the two of them that face licking...licking in general, should probably be a no-no. 

Ed had learned since then that remaining human made it easier to express themselves and understand how he felt, so rather than lick her face or flip into a wolf form and rub against her, Ed prided himself on being so human in his response, leaning into her side in the perfect human reaction. Her hand moved from his lower back up to his head where she could massage his scalp, and Ed relished the reward for behaving properly human.

As always when it got quiet around one of his friends, eventually Isabel cleared her throat to start talking. It was weird how much they all needed to talk so much, but Ed was slowly learning how effective it could be to share their feelings, given how limited their senses were.

“Yeah I can’t smell like that, but I think feeling like you- he feels about it is why I can’t ask Max if he thinks his mom was a Witch. Because he won’t talk about her at all- and if he does it’s always about how stupid and fanatical the townsfolk were for even thinking it!” Ed could understand Isabel’s point. The topic of the townsfolk made Max smell angry, spiky, hard. Sometimes he got that way when Isaac talked about the Faith too. The topic of witches and the Faith brought out the sourest smells in Max. There was no disputing with him or having a conversation with him about any of it. Ed guessed he could understand. If he remembered his parents better, if Ed had felt about them as he did about his new pack, he’d be pretty angry at anything that threatened to take them away too. Max was like that, a wolf who remembered being cornered and angry. 

“He isn’t even sure he believes in Witches.” Isabel continued. “He just believes that everyone else does and will blame him or threaten his sister! That’s why he always holds back. Even if his mom was one, and he had a Grimoire, there’s no way Max would believe that’s what it was, let alone recognize it or give it to me. And even if he thought it might be mistaken for a Grimoire he’d burn it in a second so no one would look at him and his sister funny.” Ed could understand a bit. It would be odd to be scared of a book. Especially if you were Max, he didn’t seem scared of much. He smelled like a good protector of the gave the same way Isabel smelled like a good hunter or leader. Still even the strongest guardian could be scared. And all of his pack mates had the same fear. Of being caught- being burned or thrown to the bottom of a river with blocks at their feet- they’d described the kinds of things that could happen to themselves or to him if he was ever caught by the townsfolk wolfing out. And nobody had been as serious about it as Max. He took being cautious to a whole new level. Of course, it made sense. He had a little sister, still just a pup, at home and no one was more protective than when little ones were involved. Ed knew from personal experience, how brave Max could be if he was worried about the little one. Isabel continued talking, Ed as always barely following along as he tried to translate her words through the filter of wolf thought and experience. “That’s why sometimes I think Max holds back. Like he knows how strong he is, but he’s so afraid people will think its Witch-blood that he pretends like he isn’t.”

“But...how does seeming weaker help? If someone’s a threat you need to be strong for them.”  
“It’s just...Max can’t be strong enough to fight everyone, but if he doesn’t appear to be a threat, maybe they will ignore him. Sometimes being strong enough isn’t enough. You have to be smart enough. This one time, Max was fighting with Johnny. I don’t remember what it was over. Something stupid, I’m sure. I don’t remember what. Johnny says so many things, I doubt even Max would remember what it was that time. I just remember Johnny was spewing threats and Max wasn’t getting mad enough back. So Johnny decided to throw a punch at Max- a punch that would normally knock someone else out. I was expecting him to be laid out, and was getting ready to save him. And Max just dodged. He moved so fast, just bent backwards and the punch just sailed over him. I’m not even sure I could have moved that quickly.” Isabel’s voice held a note of envy, before she shook her head, “Nah what am I saying I could have done it. But a normal boy or girl? I’m not so sure they could have. I’ve never seen any of the other children move that fast. Neither had Johnny, apparently, because the next second Johnny was on the ground with a fist in his face. It never hit, Max just held his fist next to Johnny’s face, breathing like he’d been working all day. I’m sure if he had connected, Johnny would have a nose that worked even worse than ours do compared to you.” Isabel’s comment was marked with a playful poke of Ed’s nose. Ed wisely held back from saying what he thought, _I don’t think it is possible for anyone to have a worse sense of smell than all of you already have._ Instead he held his tongue and moved his nose out of Isabel’s reach protectively to avoid another flick. Isabel snorted at his attempt to defend his pride and joy before she continued. “But I saw the look on Max’s face while he held his fist there, and he wasn’t angry. He was scared Max was so afraid. He had Johnny cornered, he knew he could win the fight, but all he could think about was what would happen to him if he did. He was just frozen. After that he just sort of sat back and let Johnny beat him down. He let Johnny win. Because if he didn’t. If he proved he could beat Johnny. Johnny would insist it was because Max was a Witch-Blood and then...”

Ed frowned. He understood what Isabel was trying to explain. But all of it came back to the same thing again and again. Why would acting weak make you safe? And why...why would being a Witch be a bad thing? Why did what kind of blood in your body matter? Should’nt being strong be good? Shouldn’t being brave and a good pack member matter? Ed frowned and tried to articulate the problem.

“Why does it matter?” Ed asked innocently. “You’re a Witch and you’re so powerful, so strong. So great.. And you just want to be stronger, learn magic, to make your mom proud. If his mom was a witch, shouldn’t he want to make her as proud as you want to make yours?” 

Isabel smiled, the compliment causing a pleased smell from her. She shrugged before answering. “I don’t know Ed,” Isabel’s scent reinforced her confused expression. Ed was comforted by the fact that Isabel was as confused this once, by the behavior of another person. It made Ed feel better about his own confusion. “Partly its because he won’t even consider that as an option. Because that would mean his sister and he were at risk too. Actually, I don’t even know why he hangs out with me and Isaac at all? I mean everyone thinks we are all Witch-Blood, or in Isaac’s case maybe just a bastard child.” Ed could tell from her expression and tone that she didn’t quite understand why Max hung out with them. He was so cautious, so careful, and then being friends with them was, if what she’d told Ed about how the townsfolk felt about them was to be believed, such a big risk. She’d explained to Ed before how important supporting his father and protecting his sister was to Max. And Ed could believe it. Iron determination was part of Max’s core scent. It underlaid everything else almost constantly. Ed couldn't imagine his goal of seeming weak and blending in was any easier with such strong or distinct friends.

“Maybe he thinks if he can protect us from being falsely accused, then it makes up for not being old enough to help his mom?” Isabel continued talking. It was one of the human things he was fond of even when he was confused by it. His friends just kept talking, even when they didn’t know the answer, and knew he didn’t have it, they still asked the questions of each other. 

“I think it’s just that we all lost parents.” Isabel patted Ed’s back knowing she included him in that. He felt guilty accepting her sympathy. He didn’t remember much of losing his parents. It was just being alone that made him feel sad. But the lonely-sad for him was as strong as their loss-sad if their smells were to be believed. “I guess it’s why we all get each other and get along. We all lost something when we were younger and know what it feels like to be adrift. No one else can really understand it. Maybe that’s enough for Max to be friends with us in spite of Isaac being part of the Faith Max doesn't like,” Ed wanted to correct her there. He wasn’t sure she understood how deep the hate-hurt smell was off Max when Isaac talked about Faith, but it wasn’t his thing to share, and she was right no matter how deep it went, it wasn’t directed at Isaac himself, so Ed kept his mouth shut as she continued. “And me,” Isabel pointed at herself ruefully, “sometimes I forget to pretend to be offended at the idea of being a Witch when it’s just us. And Max looks at me. Like he’s worried or suspicious. But I wonder-” Ed glanced at Isabel and frowned again. He frowned because he could smell her confusion, her worry. It was so strange how easily her scent triggered his emotions. Already her bad mood had fallen upon his shoulders. It always did. It wasn’t just scenting the emotions, when she felt bad he felt bad too. He was so in sync with her. If she felt it one minute, he always ended up feeling it as well. It was like that with the other two as well, but not as often. Perhaps because he spent more time with Isabel? She liked to escape to the woods to practice magic, now that she finally had someone she could practice around without fear. 

“If Isaac ever gets a Dream and has to join the Faith proper, or if Max ever learns I am a real Witch…I wonder if he’ll even want to be friends with us at all?” The hurt smell that oozed off of Isabel was so strong, Ed wanted to bury his nose in the dirt to block it. Ed knew she wasn’t actually hurt. It was something that hadn’t happened, just her thinking about what-ifs. Still his instinctual reaction offer comfort was strong. He tried to remember to use his words.

“Izzy-” Ed froze, the words not coming to him. Finally he gave up, pressing his head against hers again, trying to will her frown away while he tried to think of something. His eyes widened when that something actually came to him. “If he accepted me, and I’m so different, why wouldn’t he accept that you guys weren’t like the other people? He tells me all the time how I have to hide what I am to stay safe, but he’s still my friend.”

Isabel smiled and head-butted him back, reaching out to scratch the back of his head, behind his ears. Ed knew he could reach there himself in human form, but it was just...better when someone else did it.

Although he’d never admit it, his pleasure at having said...SAID...the right thing, was so great, he felt his throat tighten and embarrassingly enough a rumble, a growl really, a pleased groan possibly, but absolutely, definitely, not a purr, escaped. Isabel bit back a laugh, he could hear the faint titters she was trying to contain. But wisely she held back. Ed had already told her in his most serious voice the first time she’d accused him of “purring,” back when she’d first tried to adjust to having a werewolf as a friend. She’d only made that mistake once. He’d promptly bared his fangs, which even then hadn’t stirred the slightest fear scent from her annoyingly enough, and struck his most ferocious pose. He’d declared around the suddenly too sharp teeth in his human shaped mouth, that he was a wolf, not a puppy. And wolves, absolutely did not purr. Knowing she was thinking it, but marshalling his dignity to the fact that she at least wasn’t saying it, he accepted the compromise. He huffed in annoyed acceptance of her amusement, before leaning into the touch and closing his eyes,accepting the suppressed laugh as his price for the pleasant petting and the fact that her smile was slowly spreading from cheek to cheek.

Ed sniffed once to savor the smell of ‘content,’ and detected new smells in the wind. As surreptitiously as he could, he cocked his head, aiming one ear towards the wind, and rustling branches slowly getting louder. Isabel didn’t pick up on it, whether it be how little her human ears and nose picked up, or how relaxed she seemed, eyes closed with a gentle smile at just the corners of her lips and her head that rested against his own. Ed froze in place, hands clawing lightly enough in the dirt to leave only small indentions where his fingers were, anticipating what might have been coming- be it a wandering villager (though he highly doubted such a thing, the villagers weren’t nearly as brave as his pack) or a fight. As the source of the disturbance came closer, the wind brought more of the intruder’s scents to him, and it only took a sniff or two to put his worries to rest.

Those scents were familiar- metal and ash and such a strong whiff of incense Ed nearly gagged. It was time to tell Isabel that Max and Isaac had arrived. He looked at Isabel’s finally peaceful face and took in the scent of something- what was that he was smelling? He didn’t really recognize that smell, it was one he didn’t have a memory for it to trigger yet, other than having faintly smelled something similar a few times on Isaac or Max- the smell of sweat and boiling blood, but it wasn’t anger. Whatever it was, there was happiness in it.That was what mattered to Ed. It meant Isabel was happy. If he could keep her like that just a little while longer, he would be happy too, and maybe, just maybe he could figure out the new scent.

That was why he kept quiet and still, listening to the gaining steps of their other friends instead of alerting Isabel of their approach. He could tell they were tired. On occasion someone’s feet would drag through the leaves and dirt or somebody’s steps would stop entirely but not abruptly- like they’d gone to lean on a tree or something. There was sweat and grime that he could smell as they got closer and he knew they’d been racing through the forest again, probably because they knew they were later than usual.


	5. Sneaking Suspicions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Ed works his Puppy Picasso title, Isabel and Max tease Isaac about his Hide and Seek capabilities- or lack thereof. Everything is perfect but, even still, Isabel holds some lingering doubts and questions regarding the nature of both their furry friend and the barrier around their village.

“ _The Red is for caution, fear and beware.  
Its blood and poison-fruit, approach slow with care._

 _Orange is for joyful, bright and refreshed,_  
_Its foxes and tiger lilies, nature at its best._

 _ellow is for content, fed and well met,_  
_Its wheat and harvest corn, on a table set._

_Green is for healthyness, strong and alive,  
Its grass and trees-towering, ever up they strive._

_Blue is for sorrowful, sad and alone,  
Its rain and river water, chilling to the bone_

_Purple is for curious, strange and amazed,  
Butterflies and twilight skies, wonders to your gaze.”_

_~A Children’s Rhyme to learn Colors by. Source unknown._

 

So many different colors- reds, blues, yellows, and every color a pair of paws could smear those into… they covered the canvas in light marks made by claw tips to thick paw print shaped splats. Isabel smiled as Ed started to reach one yellow coated paw towards blue, before shaking his head and mixing it with red, his wolf-gold eyes widening in delight at the horrifically bright orange he’d created. Worried the laughter she was holding back might embarrass Ed out of his fun, she forced herself to turn to the argument her other companions were engaged, seeking a distraction. “No, but Max is right, Isaac. You can’t sneak for the life of you.”

“Yes I can!”

“No, no you really can’t.”

One look at Isaac, pouting, glaring at the grass with his arms wound tightly across his chest was more than she could take. Between Ed’s puppy antics and Isaacs lower lip puckering ever-so-slightly in the way that it was almost unnoticeable. Almost. To avoid laughing at them all, Isabel closed her eyes and leaned back, palms resting against the itchy grass and dirt- and possibly an ant pile, that sent a tingle in her skin with every inch backward that she leaned. She couldn’t be bothered with such a minor complaint at that moment, lost in the pleasant sensation of her lower back finally stretching and the simple fact that it felt so good to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of her friends. Her skin tingled at the sensation, but she ignored the minor discomfort in heed of how her back was thanking her for stretching. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Isaac. Want to know why you were always the seeker when we played hide and seek when we were kids? Well it’s not because you were good at seeking.”

  
“Wait,” Max mumbled as he pulled grass stickers off of his trousers, grimacing when his nails weren’t long enough to spare his fingers from being jabbed by the tiny barbs. “If he wasn’t good at seeking wouldn’t we have wanted him to hide to make it more fun?”

“No, because he’d was horrible at that too, you just don’t remember that because you’ve forgotten how to have fun.” Isabel cut off there, cautious to keep the teasing light and not point out when and why Max had stopped having as much time for their games. Max frowned, but Isabel saw with relief it was indignation at the idea he couldn’t have fun, rather than thoughts of his mother.

“I am too fun! I have fun all the time. I’m here aren’t I?”

“Yes you are,” Isaac replied, with a hint of sarcasm. He was all to happy to jump-in on teasing Max if it meant saving himself from Isabel’s wit. “Thank you so much for bringing your fun self! Without the king of frowns we’d have no idea how much fun it could be to spend all day picking at thorns and glaring at our pants.” Isaac mimicked Max’s distracted plucking and threw in one of Max’s trademark glowering stares for effect.

Without hesitation, Max growled, launching himself at Isaac with so much speed and strength that the two toppled over, beginning to roll in the grass whilst Max demanded that Isaac call him fun. Isaac laughed and defiantly declared that he’d never submit to the “tyranny of the Frown King.” To the side, Isabel heard a snort, turned and saw Ed tense as if to leap into the fray. Both Max and Isaac threw a hand up in his direction, cries of horror at the thought of the damage the paint covered paws of a playful wolf would do them both. Ed cocked his head sideways, golden eyes wide and confused, before huffing once and returning to his painting, leaving the other two to finish their battle.

Isabel felt the laughter building in her chest, and let it out easily while watching the interplay. Compared to the constant chores and nonstop work-filled environment at home, time with her select circle of friends was peaceful and relaxing. She lived for the days where she could slip away from mopping the floors or sewing dresses and just lay in the grass and get licked in the face by her werewolf companion, or rile up her friends into a playfight. Thinking about the moments like this were what got her through the drudgery of being locked inside with her grandfather. When her routine went from sun-up to sun-down seamlessly moving from milling and baking to learning from the good-hearted but insufferably dull Brother Doorman and then back home to clean and prepare dinner. The monotony got so bad that when Brother Doorman finally declared the final lesson before visiting his convent at the end of each sevenday, Isabel could barely restrain herself from jumping into bed the minute her evening chores were done. All because she was so eager for a change, for a chance to catch Max and Isaac on the way to the forest when the sun rose on their free days. Then she’d throw her all into dragging every joke and story out of her friends. She needed those little tidbits to get through the drudgery of silent evenings and mornings working with her Grandfather, or worse the rare times when he felt like talking, when it always devolved into talk of the available, suitable future husbands in their village. She hated those days the most- where he’d mention name after name knowing fully well she’d ‘considered’ every boy he ever brought up. He knew she’d said no to every one of them a million times before, and still he persisted.

“You must be married off when you come of age, Isabel” it was a song she grew tired of hearing the fool play “to a man worthy of you- a man who can protect you should worst come to worst. You will need the help, you are still too weak, too fragile.” Those were the times she had to hold her tongue. Of course she seemed weak, compared to her Grandfather, the entire village might as well be meek as milk-breathed babes. At least she could keep up with him during chores. And the few times he dabbled in teaching her the basics of defense she knew she picked it up well, even if he always seemed unable to come up with any praise. She always had to stifle her first thought, Perhaps if you spent more time teaching me and less time wishing I had a husband or a brother you could be passing all of this onto, you wouldn’t need to worry about me being weak!

But no, with her Grandfather it was always, Witch-Blood men do the fighting, Witch-Blood women do the casting. And it didn’t matter to him that there were no male Witch-Bloods in their family for him to teach. Or that she had no female relatives to explain the art of spellcraft. He’d waste so much of her time, sending her to her room with the windows closed and ordering her to practice magic, with no explanation of how. It was frustrating, because it felt like such a waste. Of course she wanted to learn the magic. She knew in her gut she was meant for it, but without guidance, without instruction it was just headaches and staring and mumbling words that sort of ‘felt right.’. At least the few times her Grandfather taught her self-defense she could make progress, hone a skill. Those rare lessons where when she most felt like she was connecting with her heritage, with her family history, and doing so in a way muddling through magic blind could not.

Still she intended to be it all. The Witch, the women of her family were meant to be, and do it without having to hold herself back and let a husband shield her from everything else. It was just at an agonizingly slow process getting there.

She was jostled out of her reverie by a gentle nudge from Max, who thoroughly covered in grass stains and sweat, had crawled over to sit beside her. He sighed heavily as he leaned back, copying her palms to the ground pose. He gestured with his head once she turned to look at him, directing her attention to his defeated adversary. Isabel turned head lazily, catching site of Isaac, laying flat on the grass, flushed and feigning utter exhaustion and defeat. With a smirk Max returned her to their earlier conversation. “So, now that we’ve cleared up the confusion on who's the most fun. Back to the real question. Is it better to have a bad seeker and good hiders than a good seeker with a bad hider.” From the grass Isaac raised one fist weakly, shaking it in mock threat, before letting it drop to the ground with a tired thud. “The way I see it, the game lasts longer with a bad seeker, even if the rest of us have to eventually let him catch us or it will never end. It’s definitely better than pretending not to see how bad he is at hiding himself. Or hiding anything else for that matter.”

At that, Isaac’s mock collapse was ruined as he heaved himself up onto his elbows, his eyes widened, lips parting in protest little by little as realization dawned upon him that Max was implying they _let_ him find them eventually. He took a short, sharp breath of air and glared towards Max, who schooled his expression into one of stoic indifference. From her angle, Isabel wasn’t fooled by Max’s expression the corners of his mouth twitched with a suppressed smirk. Dark, lidded grey eyes stared challengingly at bright blue ones that danced in annoyance, lids fluttering and twitching. Then Isaac’s eyes widened in shock, as if dozens of past conversations and games all made sense.

“Wait, was that why you wouldn’t let me sneak Ed the paints?” a hint of wounded pride inflected into Isaac’s voice. “You guys think I’m the worst at hiding things?”

Isabel’s hand shot to her mouth, muffling the snort that threatened to escape. Max met the fiery tone of Isaac’s voice with a calmer nonchalant one, which made it even harder for Isabel to stifle her laughter. Meeting Isaac’s passionate inquiries with calmness was a sure way to get him even more riled up. Max had a tendency to do just that. Of course teasing Isaac and his temper was fun, but nobody got as much joy out of it as Max did. And technically Isaac had started it today. Well, ok Isabel had started it, but since no one seemed to remember that part, she wasn’t going to remind them. She enjoyed the occasional jab that Isaac would serve right back to her on a silver platter, but between Isaac and Max it was always a no holds barred battle, worth watching. With an underlying current of affection they’d still throw words and glares at each other, wielded like blades and arrows in a mock battle to the death, or the first to lose their dignity. Usually it ended with the loss of dignity. And mostly Isaac’s... “You would make it obvious that you were carrying it, Isaac,” Max reasoned false-indifference hiding the mocking undertone.

“So what? They’d think I paint! It’s not like we stole them!”

Isabel smiled when the corner of Max’s mouth twitched. Max shook his head and raised his palms, leaning further to lay flat on his back before crossing his arms behind his head.

“No we didn’t, but what if somebody asked to see your work? Wondered at what kind of art you were creating and maybe wanted examples? One look at one of your paintings and they’ll lock up all the paint in the village. Then we will have to start stealing it for the puppy painter over there.”

Isaac started ripping grass up with his hands, before crawling closer to fling it at Max. Isabel snorted and brought a hand up to her face, Isaac’s aim being so bad, she got as much of it as Max.

“My painting’s aren’t that bad!”

“That depends entirely on your definition of bad, does it not? I mean I thought the last one wasn’t particularly awful, except for the red boils you painted on the kids.

“Wait,” Isabel giggled, “Red boils? Kids? I thought it was a bunch of ants attacking even bigger bugs.”

“It,” a ripping sound as Isaac clawed up more grass, “Was,” more ripping, “the Apple trees in the Chapel Yard!”

Max and Isabel lost it at the wounded dignity in his voice, and just looked at each other, mouthing ‘apples?!’ in disbelief before rolling into each other and laughing. A storm of grass blades flew at them and they rolled towards each other to shield themselves. Seeing the grass wasn’t effective, Isaac lurched off the ground to tackle them. Isabel- for a moment-swore she felt Max tense up as quickly as she did, his reaction almost as fast as hers, in spite of her Witch-Blood. But when she rolled away, dodging Isaac’s assault with ease, Max moved sluggishly, far slower than she, making Isabel wonder if she’d imagined the reflexive tensing in his arms. Or he'd deliberately held himself back? Isabel wanted to ask Ed if he’d noticed, but he was still happily huffing and painting, occasionally turning to look at them, with a sniff or wag of his tail, but unwilling to stop before he’d finished his work of art.

Instead she turned to watch the scuffle that’d been waged, rolling her eyes at the mock-hostility they infused into their every encounter. That was just their relationship, Isabel guessed, something that would never change nor falter regardless of the circumstances. Even with Max’s distrust of the Faith, it was clear to see in the way Isaac nudged him and the way Max rolled over, knocking Isaac back to the ground and began to fling retaliatory grass back over Isaac’s head, that there was nothing but complete trust behind every swing and mocking word. Subconsciously, her eyes traveled over grass and trees to find Ed’s painting space- a small stony outcropping that was stained with the colors. Several patches of stone were covered in paint from previous drawings, all decorating walls of Isabel’s room. Ed was jumping around, excitedly panting like a pup, paws covered completely in a kaleidoscope of colors that trailed a good way up his front legs. She could hardly see the colors against the painted-wet darkness of his fur, but the wetness was visible enough, and every now and then when a paw lifted she could see the color sticking out against the pink, roughened pads under the claws. Those claws of course were hard to miss, sharp and fierce. Just like his canines, jagged and long, that peaked out when he smiled. For all she could ignore them when he was playful, every now and then they’d catch her eye and she’d shiver for a moment, seized by a subconscious reminder that in nature her friend was predator through and through, and the line between her and prey was a paper thin one, defined by her trust and their friendship.

It was during those little moments of realization that Isabel would think back and wonder if Ed truly was safe to be around. One look at the warm honey-gold of his eyes and the fears inspired by tooth and claw would fade and her heart would beat out a resounding yes to the question. She felt safe, almost protectively cared for around Ed, and those feelings were not one-sided. Had she been asked how far she’d go to help Ed, her answer would have been to the moon and back. The question of why she felt safe and what proof she had she could trust him, though...the logical side of the problem was more difficult.

She was no fool. Werewolves were creatures in the horror stories read to children to scare them away from straying too far from home near dusk. Stories smiling adults had shared with her as a child, making fearsome claw hands and using scary voices. They were deadly monsters that stalked those who dared to walk alone in the dead of night. Seizing them in the wooded roads, where nobody could hear their screams and cries, leaving no trace in the morning light save rust-red blood stains and the lines clawed into the dirt by the nails of their victims struggling to escape. Of course, that’s what village children everywhere were told.

But in Mayview, the stories were not the normal light-hearted “scare children into behaving” type. Tales of the wolf monsters that stalked the woods had stopped being funny two years prior, when the bodies of some poor traveling traders had been found, on the road to Mayview, in the thick of the woods, their flesh mangled beyond recognition and their wagon smashed and scored by claws too large for any normal wolf. Only the horse had survived, running into Mayview town proper with deep gashes on its side and a panicky whiteness to its eyes. No amount of calming could get the horse to settle and by the night's end it had simply collapsed, its heart giving out from exhaustion and fright as far as anyone could tell.

Soon the tales normally reserved for naughty children were being swapped around hearth fires, breathless speakers describing a feeling of being watched when they walked in the woods. Stories of spotting huge beastly tracks or sighting towering, blood thirsty shadows moving just beyond the village greens. The stories had caught like wildfire spreading first amongst the adults and then overheard and whispered by wide-eyed terrified children up past their bedtime. Soon it became almost a past time, some of the villagers telling more and more harrowing tales, in attempts to top their neighbors, each detailing more horrific close encounters and narrower escapes. In the few short years since the traveler's bodies had turned up, the tall tales had created an ever rising wave of paranoia that swept throughout the entire village. The stories that blamed such sightings on werewolves were clearly made up, if for no other reason than the indisputable fact that Ed couldn’t even enter the village, let alone stalk along the empty streets at night to horrify passerbies on their way home. And certainly none of the villagers had dared the woods to find those tracks and shadows. Almost no one ventured beyond the village greens once those stories had started up. But even if they were made up, Brother Doorman had always said, in any story, no matter how fanciful, there can always be found a grain of truth. And something had killed those first travelers, and done it outside the protective barrier of the town, out in the woods that Ed prowled. Isabel cared about Ed, and she’d do anything for him. She was just cautious. At least, that’s what she told herself.

But it was hard to keep such suspicions in her mind, Ed was the opposite of all of those tales- the opposite of what one would expect a fearsome beast like a werewolf to be. Even when in wolf form, his eyes seemed to dance with puppy-like delight, and somehow even his wolf snout managed to smile, without the exposed teeth inspiring fear or defensiveness. And as a human there was no question, he was all grins and head buts and greeting his friends with hugs and cuddles that lasted so long the victim would eventually find themselves stuck with the wolf-boy fast asleep on their lap. Of course if Isabel really needed proof that Ed was safe, she just needed to look to Max, who displayed no sense of caution or fear around Ed. He was the most paranoid out of the entire group, what with being stuck as the sole caretaker and defender of both his father and his little sister. And yet Max never seemed to worry even just a little that Ed was dangerous, and he was the one who first found the wild-wolf-boy thing in the woods. _That’s why he brought you to meet Ed in the first place,_ _Isabel_ , some part of her thought, _because he knows Ed would never so much as nibble at any of you_. Sure Ed was still a wolf, they’d seen him tear into the flesh of small animals before (and even one slightly larger animal- a fox) and he’d bared his fangs at perceived threats in the distance (they run into their fair share of bears in their time together), but never for a moment had he turned such displays on a person. Even in their play fights, when he tussled and nipped, there was never any real aggression or danger in his actions towards them.

Clearly, Max was right to trust Ed.

Though she wondered often where that trust came from. The Max she knew pre-Ed was far from somebody who’d ever dare go near a wolf, let alone a werewolf. He’d be so worried about Zoey and his father and- and so many other things. How in the world it was that Ed garnered such loyalty from Max was beyond her. She’d been told Ed didn’t really know how to transform into a human until Max had come along, so werewolfness wasn’t revealed later on. It simply made no sense.

  
“The sun is starting to set. I think we need to get home.”

Isabel lurched from her thoughts at the loud whine that resonated through the clearing. She turned in time to see Ed transition, bones cracking and fur withdrawing in shocking speed. Fortunately for all of their sensibilities Isaac had trained Ed into keeping a pair of cut-off pant on at all times when they were visiting. It made for a funny scene, a wolf running around in cut-off leggings, but with Ed’s tendency to transition to human, without warning, it was by far the most decent option. Once again Isabel felt grateful for Isaac’s obsession for propriety when the humanized Ed bounded into her personal space, with pants on thankfully.

“But Maaaxx!” Ed, threw his arms around Isabel’s shoulders as if to at least hold her back from leaving. He leaned forward over her shoulder and stared mournfully at the other two boys, who were slowly standing up and dusting off their stained clothes. It was a familiar scene- the trio deciding that it was time to head home before their various guardians or families became worried enough to wonder where they went and Ed begging with his eyes wide and sparkling with his hands clenching and twisting with worry. Isabel was just grateful that Ed had turned the puppy-eyes on the other two this time, as he started to beg them to “please, please stay just a little more.” On some days where his pouting was especially pathetic or they’d gotten there later than usual, they’d succumb to his pleading for just a little more time.“You and Isaac just got here! Can’t you all stay a little longer?”

“Not today, Ed. Sorry.” Isaac stood and wiped the dirt from his white clothes. Why he still decided sitting on the grass in such fabric was a good idea, even after the day Spender scolded him for carelessness of the trappings of the faith, was beyond her. She thought a few times about whether or not the dirt on his clothes would give them away, but she supposed there were enough reasons for a boy-nearly-man to be covered in muck.

Ed bunched from behind Isabel, leaping over her seated form and launching himself towards Max since Isaac had already rebuked him. Max dodged backward, attempting to avoid the painted hands, “Oh come on! Please?”

“Sorry, Ed. I’ve gotta get home to tuck Zoey in. If I don’t she’s not going to go to bed on her own.”

Isabel smiled and stood with Max and Isaac, reaching for her basket with the red cloth thrown inside haphazardly. If she left it with Ed, her grandfather would become suspicious- not something she needed. “It’s nearly dark. We’ve gotta go.”

Ed sighed, but it sounded more like an irritated huff. “Fine, if you guys have to.”

 

* * *

 

 

The walk to the edge of the forest was the same as always, quiet but only because they spoke in whispers and hushed each-other every so often. Ed would get too loud or Isaac would get angry and she would have to pat Ed’s head and Max would have to flick Isaac’s cheek and then they would go back to speaking softly. By the time they reached the tamer parts of the forest the sky was tinted various shades of oranges and pinks and light light blues that melded together like cream. To them it was a warning sign that they had precious little time left to get home before children wandering out at night might arouse suspicion from those adults still wandering the streets. While they were few in number, they were a loud bunch that sat outside the pub well after the doors were locked, lingering until late hours of the night nursing their last mugs of rum in their hands- very talkative and overconfident. Word that the trio had been out so late would get around quickly.

The dwindling numbers of trees told Isabel it was time to part and so the conversations they’d shared about how Max appreciated the apples Isaac had gotten Zoey, and Isabel promised to bring more meat pies for their carnivorous friend the next time she or her grandfather made some began to wrap up. Folding her hands in front of her so her arms could share the weight of the basket, Isabel turned on her heel to face her friends. “Remember to wash your paws off before you go hunting tonight, alright Ed?”  
“Yes, ma’am,” Ed ducked his gaze and looked at the ground, scuffing a foot while Max and Isaac shared amused glances over his lowered head at Isabel’s mothering.

“I’m serious. If you kill something with your claws that stuff might poison it. Then your food will be fighting from beyond the grave.”

Ed grimaced and sucked the inside of his cheek, his mouth puckering as if he’d tasted something awful. For a second Isabel wondered if he’d already learned that particular lesson the the hard way. But if he had wouldn’t he have been poisoned? Could werewolves be poisoned? “Thank you for that thought,” Ed mumbled.

“I’m just warning you.”

Max stretched his arms above his head, exhaling as he stepped from the wild weeds and flowers of forest and onto the short even grass and packed dirt of a village path.

Isaac followed close behind him, scratching at his chest absently. “We’ll see you tomorrow, guys. Have a good night.”

“You too, Isaac!”

Isabel took one step towards the line between the forest and the road, only to stop when she felt Ed’s hand grasping the back of her hood. She turned around to look at him, already sporting a supportive smile in preparation for the routine parting words.

“You guys are coming back tomorrow, right?”

“Of course we are, wolf-boy. Brother Doorman always takes at least two days on his trips to his monastery.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

She took another step back- away from him, crossing the line. At the last moment, Ed’s upraised hand opened, releasing his hold on her hood and leaving his open palm facing her in an unmoving parting wave. “I wish I could come with you guys,” Ed frowned miserably and as he always did, extended his open palm slowly, cautiously towards her and the invisible line between wild weeds and tame grass. There was a faint buzz that Isabel could feel resonate in her bones,rapidly turning into a loud crackling sound. The space between her and Ed’s open hand shimmered as his hand approached, shimmering like the air did above hot bricks during the worst of summer. A luminescent blue light flickered into being faint at first, but then brighter as Ed’s hand got closer. Under the fey glow, she could see Ed’s teeth grow sharp and his ears become narrow and pointed as he started to shift from his effort. The crackle ended in a sharp snapping sound and she could tell from the strain in Ed’s face that he could move his hand no further forward. The air between them was illuminated by a solid white-blue light about the size of his palm. Ed kept it pressed there a moment, before pulling it back, shaking his hand as if to get rid of an unpleasant sensation. Isabel’s eyes struggled to adjust to the rapid return of darkness, barely able to make out Ed worrying his lower lip between his teeth, before he released it with a sigh and spoke. “I just wish I knew why this thing was here! What are they trying to keep inside of your village that needs this kind of protection?”

“I don’t know.” She really didn’t. Witches like herself weren’t hampered by the barrier. And as far as she knew it had never reacted to any person or animal. If it had she was certain a townsperson would have mentioned seeing it. What Isabel did know was that it was clearly magic. But that usually meant Witchcraft. Isabel would have expected it to stop the Sacred Blood if it was magic- what else did Witches fear? That couldn’t be it. Neither Isaac nor the Inquisitor had ever been hampered by the barrier when crossing from the village green into the weeds.

It didn’t make sense. Was there something valuable within Mayview that needed to be protected? Or worse… was there something being kept inside? Could only people born in Mayview walk past the barrier? They hadn’t seen newcomers in ages.  
“Maybe there’s a valuable artifact in the church?” Isabel jumped as Isaac’s voice chimed from over her shoulder. The blue flare of light must have caught their attention enough to notice Isabel had tarried at the villages barrier to speak to Ed. The sight would have certainly stirred their curiosity to return and watch it again. It was something they’d all thought about from time-to-time. “It’s been here as long as we’ve known Ed, and you,” Isaac nodded towards the huddled shadow of Ed. “You say it’s been here as long as you remember, right?” Ed’s figure cloaked in shadows as the evening grew slumped as his but dropped to the ground and he drew his knees to his chest.

“The furthest back I can remember is running through the woods, as a wolf, alone and scared. I remember seeing the light of the village and running towards it and...hitting this.” He reached out with one hand again. It scared me and I ran off again. I don’t know how long it was before I was brave enough to get close to it again and I tried a few times. But every time…” Isabel felt another buzz, but this time Ed winced and pulled his hand back at the first faint flickers of blue white light. “It’s always there,” he finished forlornly.

“You think the Inquisitor did it? Maybe he brought something with him? Something he’d have to hide from everyone? That might explain some things,” Max’s arms were at his sides, fumbling in the pockets of his trousers, his eyes narrowed in apprehension and suspicion as he studiously avoided looking at Isaac, who bristled slightly at Max’s surly tone when talking about the Inquisitor.

“What do you mean by that?” Isaac, clearly forcing his voice to remain steady, though his eyebrow was raised. He turned to look at Isabel and Ed as well.

“I’m just saying, Inquisitors don’t stay in towns as normal Priests, they are always supposed to be hunting Witches and threats to the Church. It’s not normal. That might explain why he’s been here so long.” Max’s tone was defensive, but his face was firm. Isabel let out a quiet groan, knowing where this was likely to head if not stopped. Ed whined in sympathy with her.

“And him saying he’s here to train me isn’t a good enough reason?” Isaac frowned.

“A regular Priest could train you just as well, or even better. Inquisitors are supposed to be hunters- not teachers or preachers. Maybe that’s why it’s taken you so long to have a Dream,” Max winced as soon as he said it and Isabel didn’t bother hiding her groan this time. Across the barrier Isabel could see Ed pulling his legs close enough to push his face forward and bury his nose between his knees to avoid whatever he was smelling.

Isabel raised a hand to interrupt but before she could step in, Isaac was already replying.

“It’s not Inquisitor Spender's fault. The barrier or my- he’s staying for me, not to hide nefarious secrets or artifacts. Why would he even do that? Why would you bring bring anything requiring this,” Isaac waved at the empty air between Ed and the rest of them, “kind of containment magic to Mayview? There’s nothing special about this place!”

Isabel shrugged her shoulders, moving between the two and gently elbowing Max in the dark. His sharp intake of breath gave her a chance to step in and speak before he messed anything else up. “It’s not completely crazy Isaac,” even in the gathering dark she could see Isaac flinch backwards. She reached a hand out and pat him soothingly, “It doesn't have to be evil or nefa-nef-sinister. Max just said something to hide,” she glared towards Max before he could clarify that he probably had meant for it to be sinister. “But this wouldn’t be a bad place to hide something important to the Faith. You just have to think about it differently. This is why you aren’t the best hider or seeker. What’s a better place to keep a secret than the last place anyone would look? You know, in a place too normal for anybody to suspect it’s here?”

“Okay…” some of the defensiveness dropped out of Isaac’s tone tone and Isabel relaxed. Behind her she felt a pat on her back from Max, which she assumed was in gratitude for her handling. Isaac continued, “But...the barrier doesn’t stop anyone. Just Ed. If he was hiding something, being an Inquisitor who stayed in one place would attract some attention. And what if people came looking, drawn by that…” Isaac scratched his head with the tip of his finger, eyes glancing to the half-moon in the sky. Likely he was asking the embodiment of the Blind Lady for answers. “Mayview doesn’t really have any other defenses. If they picked this place to avoid notice, an Inquisitor sticking around for years as a secret guardian would be achieving the exact opposite!”  
“What if there are lots of people looking for it. Maybe they’re trying to remain in-hiding because they don’t want to attract the attention of the Faith or other seekers? ” Isaac raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but Isabel continued confidently, drawn into her imagined contenders for her imagined treasure. “Maybe they have to be quiet about searching for his thing, because not only would the Inquisition know and rush to defend it, but because other people hunting for the artifact would know and start doing the same thing! Then there would be this huge rush for the treasure, and they’d all come crashing into Mayview, which of course the Inquisitor would notice since no one ever comes here. And we’d be overrun and the whole town would have to fight them off.” Isabel punched one hand into the other.

“Wait!” Ed’s hands came forward, raised to get their attention. He jerked it to a stop; however, at the first hint of a crackling sound. He pleaded for a lapse in the conversation to speak. “Who even are ‘they’?”

Isaac and Max joined Ed in staring at Isabel in confusion. She grinned awkwardly, running a hand along the back of her neck as she backtracked. “Uh, the treasure hunters? And the army of the Inquisition- and okay maybe that’s not the best theory.” When all three of them coughed to cover laughs, Isabel crossed her arms and countered, “Well. I don’t see any of you coming up with a better explanation, remember Isaac’s ancient curse idea or Max’s ‘it’s just always been like that,’” Max had the decency to cough awkwardly. “The truth is that we’ve all tried to come up with some explanation, and nothing any of us has ever thought up can be proven. We can’t even ever all agree that one of them makes sense to us all. And we probably never will.”

Max shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Okay, fair point. Can we please talk about this later, though? I can only imagine what Zoey is doing home alone with my father right now. I’ll be surprised if the house is still standing...”

“Besides…” Isaac mumbled, getting in the last word over Max, “we couldn’t prove it was the Inquisitor even if it was. Which it isn’t. We don’t have anything to go on besides the barrier itself, and the only thing it seems to do is keep out...” Isaac stopped at Ed’s sad whine. He winced and finished apologetically, “Max is right it’s time to go.” Isabel agreed turning to follow. Behind her she heard the crack of bone and and whuff of fur sprouting. She looked over her shoulder to see a wolf already walking away, its tail dragging and a slump to its shoulders. She caught a glint of golden eyes as he looked over his shoulder at them and gave out a soft whimper before looking away and putting on a burst of speed to bound out of sight.

 

* * *

 

 

“Where have you been, little red riding hood?”

“Grandfather, please, if you want me to act like a woman then stop calling me little girl nicknames.”

“Our names are not everything, Isabel. We will not always be called what fits us most. And if you wish me to treat you as a woman, perhaps you should start acting like one, instead of shirking responsibilities.”

Isabel closed the heavy wooden door of their cozy cabin and tugged down on the bar that locked it. Her grandfather was more than capable of deterring thieves with his bare hands, but he always insisted that as Witch-Blood hiding in secret they needed to take every precaution with their privacy. This was why their home was farther from the village center than even Woodcutter Jhonny and his bothersome son. Placing her basket on the table besides the door, she pulled her red cloak out of it, glaring at it and her grandfather before replying with swallowed venom. “I did all of my chores before I left, like a responsible adult, and the cloak’s off so can you at least stop with the Little Red comments.”

“Where have you been all day?” Her grandfather ignored her words and Isabel felt her temper twitch. “It is late and you should have been home far sooner than you were. The house is in sore need of cleaning!”

Isabel whirled around, stepping forward with a frown. “Cleaning? I did it all this morning. I did the sweeping and the mo- Ah,” Isabel cried out as her foot slipped as she reached the middle of the room Her other foot slid in the opposite direction when she tried to balance. She barely remained standing as her hands windmilled. Once she felt steady she looked at the floor suspiciously and her mouth dropped when she recognized the substance painting their wooden floor.

Blood.

Thick, probably cold-to-the-touch liquid ran from one end of the room to the other on the floors she’d meticulously scrubbed at sunrise. She took a closer look at her grandfather and noted his hands were equally stained. One counter held a cleaver and she could make out enough meat on the table to account for at least two or three sheep. Isabel would have asked why, but staring at the daunting cleaning task facing her, she couldn't bring herself to care. At that moment she’d have believed he’d stolen the butcher’s job for no other reason than to give her more cleaning and work to do. It wasn’t surprising. He covered for other townsfolk whenever something came up. He once explained it to her as a form of blending in, that it was their best interest as Witch-Bloods in secret, to be as helpful and busy as possible to deflect suspicion. Isabel wasn’t sure she believed him, or if he just felt some overwhelming need to alway keep himself...and her, busy. Her grandfather sat behind the counter with a large sharpened knife, poised with his hand in the air about to come down heavily upon the neck of a pig on his table. There was no doubt he was covering for the Butcher. They’d never need this much meat on their own. Who knew how many different animal’s blood had come to stain the boots and her floor. Seeing the expectant expression on his face as he held himself mid-strike, she finally answered his question about her day with a reluctant, “Nowhere.”

“Isabel Guerra-!” he started to shout, his face contorting as his chest swelled.

“I’ve been with friends.”

“Friends, hah?” Her grandfather punctuated the hah, with the sound of his knife slamming down, severing flesh and bone in one loud whack. Isabel winced, but only for a moment. She hoped it was not enough to let him know she was nervous about what was coming, but rather assumed it was a reaction to the image and sound of the sharp butcher’s knife slamming into the kitchen counter. It certainly would have been an understandable reaction. The knife had severed flesh, skin, and bone, before biting into the wood of the kitchen table as though it was butter.

“When you say friends you mean that filthy sacred blood and the damaged smith’s boy, the one who slinks and glares at his elders with such disrespect?”

“Isaac is not filthy.” Isabel might not have followed the Faith, how could she with their attitude toward witches, but she’d listened to Isaac talk about it, or the parts he cared about. It wasn’t all Witch killing or hunting. The parts he talked about were filled with messages about kindness to neighbors and charity towards those in need. Listening to Isaac talk made it hard to equate all Sacred Bloods as dirty Witch-Blood hunting fanatics. He might not Dream, but in every other way Isaac strived to be his idea of a Sacred Blood ideal, and that ideal was a better person than anyone else Isabel knew. And when it came to actual cleanliness...he was obsessed. Compared to Isaac, Max was filthy. Ed was certainly filthy. She and her currently gore covered grandfather were the very essence of filthy “Max is a grouch to adults. But they killed his mom. I thought we, being what we are,” even in her anger she held her tongue from saying it out loud. Her Grandfather would have flown in a rage if she let her temper overwhelm caution, ”I figured we should have at least some sympathy for him at least. They're my friends!”

“They’re a danger. A risk to you and I! All it will take is the Inquisitor leaving and the mob will be back. They’ll turn on the priest boy. As for the other, when he comes of age, if he doesn’t learn to control himself, even if your priest boy begged for leniency, they’ll demand he take the Test. And if he takes the Test, he’ll either die or end up like his Father. The same goes if the village comes for you. No Sacred Blood ‘friend’ could save you, if he would even try. If the inquisitor is still here when they turn on us, you’ll be Tested. If he isn’t, they’d burn you with no proof, like the Puckett woman. Of the two I’d hope for the burning if I were you. If you were Tested, you’re a,” he stopped himself. His glare magnified, scowling at her as if he blamed her for his near slip. “There’s no question what would happen.” Her grandfather turned the meat on the table, raising and dropping the knife with another violent chop to sever off a leg. “I’ve seen what the Test does to our ki- what it can do.. Burning at the stake would be a mercy. The point is,” he turned the meat on the table again, drawing out another pig leg, “they can’t help you if you ever get caught. And being around them, well... if the village ever decides to go after either of your friends, do you honestly believe they wouldn’t drag you into the flames as well?! Because I’ll tell you what would really happen to you when that happens,” he stopped there, letting the words hang until the cleaver slammed down to sever the pig leg, and finish his threat.

“Isaac and Max would never!”

And neither would…Isabel held the other thought in her head.

Her grandfather didn’t know about Ed. Quite frankly, with how little he thought of her human friends, she had no intention of ever telling him either  
“And if you continue conversing with those accused boys, nobody will want to wed you.” There it was. Isabel wanted to throw her hands in the air in frustration rather than deal with this particular argument. Still she refused to stay silent on the issue. “Save one of them perhaps,” he looked up at that thought, glaring at her with sudden suspicion. “And if that is your aim you can stop at once! Nothing good can come of a union between us and the Sacred Blood, not if you are to carry on the duty of our family! And as for the other,” he paused a second, and Isabel shuddered in horror as she realized he was actually giving it some thought. She almost felt relief when he shook his head in negation, “No. Even if he and his sister really are… no there is too much suspicion around them. And nothing to be gained in terms of their poor prospects. How they’ll manage to ever marry off the girl, likely a love match that won’t mind their poverty, a foolish option for whichever boy agrees, but not my problem. But the boy, Max, he’ll never be matched unless he turns out a better Smith than his father ever was before the Test. But you- you have the bride price and the charm,” he said the last part dubiously, “well the looks at least. You could be married well, if you weren’t so dead set on turning away every potential suitor!”

“And why is that a problem? I’m not so keen on any of the boys in this village, anyway.” Isabel added an emphasis on ‘boys,’ to express her distaste for the bullying, narrow-minded dullards that made up the pool of eligible suitors her grandfather entertained.  
“You don’t need to be.” Isabel’s grandfather waved a dismissing hand at Isabel, his frown showing his opinion of such a silly sentiment as wanting to like the man she’d one day wed.  
“Of course I do. I have to speak my vows at the wedding, don’t I? If I don’t care for him, I’ll have to fake them. You said it yourself- I’m not the best actress.” Isabel turned away a second, looking for the bucket and scrub brushes. If she was going to deal with this stupid argument she could at least get work done.

“Isabel-!” She could tell by his tone this was one of those nights when he wasn’t going to settle for silent glares. Suddenly she didn’t care about getting the floors clean. She could do it tomorrow, and to hell without how much harder it’d be once the blood had settled. If he had a problem he could clean it himself. If he didn’t, she’d rather spend more time on it tomorrow than have an easy time of it but a hard time of him tonight.  
“Look, I’m tired. Let me go rest so I can get up early to do all of my chores tomorrow.”

He spluttered, trying to string together enough angry words to form an argument, but she was already on her way to the sweet escape that was the ladder up to her room above. She focused her thoughts on her mattress and quilt to keep from letting her grandfather’s words gain any purchase in her mind. Isabel wasn’t about to discuss the concept of a bride price or her hand- much less a wedding or a husband. And she wasn’t going to bed thinking about it either. She’d had plenty of nightmares in the past from doing that.

No, her heart was set on magic- the love her grandfather couldn’t help her find, rather than the empty marriage he seemed set on seeking out for her.


	6. Inquiries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isaac learns about a side of the Faith and its Inquisitors he never wanted to face. And on the roadside outside of Mayview, Brother Doorman faces unsettling new dangers headed for the unsuspecting town.

_“In light of recent troubles, in particular the difficulties with Witches aiding those members of the Blood who still cling to the old Faiths, it is decided that we can no longer just rely upon the Bloodless to provide our military strength.  We cannot continue to lead from a distance.  The Witch Blood bring strength, speed, and their magic to bear, and with that support the Bloodless foot soldiers cannot hope to win in their pursuit of our foes.  All of the Dream knowledge and visions we may use to track down those who seek to escape us, are of no use, if we cannot seize them because they hide amongst the Witch Blood._

_We must find new weapons to bear, a way to train our own people to overcome this advantage, and give us the ability to stand on the battle lines against our enemies._

_To that end, I have commissioned the outfitting and training of a militant order of the Sacred Blood.  An Inquisition, to root out those who seek to evade us, not from afar as we have done, but in the field of battle itself.  With the Lady’s guidance, I am certain they may provide the advantage we need in overcoming our enemies, subduing the Witch-Blood forces, and seeking our quary no matter where it seeks to hide.”_

_Inception of the Inquisition~ High Priestess, Deino Graeae, 8 A.D. (After the Division)_

Isaac moved the Chapel door closed by leaning his back against it and letting his weight shift the massive door.  His entire body shook for a moment with the resounding boom of the door closing, and he let himself relax against the ancient oaken panels, the sun-soaked wood warm against the night chill, just as the pleasant memories of the day warded him against the unpleasant and suspicious looks of the villagers that watched him trudge home through the darkened streets.  In spite of that unpleasantness he smiled caught in the physical and nostalgic heat..  Until the irritating tingle at his chest drew him from his his reverie, with prickles, part soft part sharp, like cloth squeezed and pulled over sunburned skin.  Without thinking, Isaac’s left hand drew up, scratching at it, but the only relief came when the pendant was separated, momentarily from his skin.  As soon as it resettled against his reddened flesh the tingle came back.   _It’s getting worse_ , he frowned, wondering again at his odd reaction to the charm.  He’d recalled from lessons with Brother Doorman that for some people, certain plants or animals, or things made from those plants and animals, could irritate the skin, causing welts and rashes.  But the Brother had said nothing of metals and of all metals, how could a Sacred Blood be, _allergic_ was the term he’d used, to Platinum, one of the three metals sacred to the Blind Lady.  There was enough caution in Isaac to know better than to ask aloud in front of the other students, what it might mean if the touch of a such a holy metal itched…no…burned his skin.  No matter how innocent the true reason might be, it was exactly the kind of thing that would lead townsfolk to muttering Witch-Blood under their breath.  Muttering it, even if everyone knew it was Quick-silver that caused such things, not platinum.  His queries to Spender had been just as unhelpful, the Inquisitor providing vague talk of the power of metals without providing any solid confirmation that this was a normal reaction.  And while the talk of Platinum being infused with too much power might seem inspiring and convincing, Spender wore some platinum, just a little for certain ceremonies.  Not once had Isaac ever seen him so much as twitch when it settled against his skin.  Nor had those few people in town with the wealth to afford valuable bobbles ever shown anything but pride when they wore their platinum finery.

 _Maybe he’s just stronger at resisting it than I?_  Isaac frowned at the depreciating thought.  He wasn’t that weak, he could sit through the Vigil without complaint…well almost without complaint.  He could show almost no reaction to the bite of stone into his knees.  But this sensation from the platinum was almost too maddening to resist.  And if it was an aspect of the metal’s power as the Inquisitor implied, why had it not always been this bad.  When he was younger he remembered just a few twitches, a feather soft rustle when it moved, more tickle than itch.  But the feeling had moved past amusing to awkward and then to uncomfortable as the years passed.  These days…even if he ignored it the entire day and resisted the urge to scratch, by the end of the day his skin was left with a red impression of the charm and necklace, a rash branded into his skin in the shape of the Lady’s Gaze, attached to a circular welt around his neck.  

With a frown he shook his head, done with such thoughts for the evening and reached back to work the clasp, eager to remove it now that he was within the Chapel walls.  For all the Inquisitor insisted upon its presence when he went outside, within the walls of the Chapel, he relented.  ‘No need for such symbolism here, under the roof of the Blind Lady,’ as he’d put it.  The second the necklace was removed, Isaac whimpered in relief, surprised at how much the feeling had been bothering him, once it’s omnipresent buzz vanished.  He slipped it into one pocket, eager to break contact with skin completely before his hand started to tingle as well.  Only then did he move into the Chapel.

Shadows filled the ceiling and corners but most of the Chapel was lit by several tall candelabras, each carrying at least a pair if not more of slow burning candles.  It’d be Isaac’s duty to put them out soon, once he’d determined that the last villagers had left.  In truth, he should have been the one to light  them as well, when the sun had first started to descend.  The Inquisitor; however, had told him more than once, that Spender himself could handle such a simple task on the few days Isaac was not tied to Brother Doorman or his studies of the Faith all day.  

It was on that thought that Isaac walked down the aisle between the many rows of wooden benches, towards the empty front altar.  Far better lit, the  there were more candles, of a richer quality, filling the air with the incense from more expensive scented-candles.  Musky earthen scents, light floral odors, and wax tickled at Isaac’s nose.  He suppressed a sneeze as he entered the smoky air and  stopped before the altar, making the Ladies Gaze with his hands and tilting his head upward, eyes closed for the nightly prayer.  There was no need to drop to his knees as he did for a full Vigil in the mornings.  At night, when the moon carried the Lady’s palace high in the sky, the Sacred Blood were only expected to make a perfunctory prayer, a short reflection of the day that had passed to prepare themselves.  Soon enough in their Dreams the Lady would commune directly with them, so there was no need for lengthy and involved prayers before bed.   _If she chooses to send any Dreams that is_ , Isaac regretted the spiteful, bitter little kernel in his mind and smoothed it away directing his thoughts to a more appropriate frame of mind.  As inspiration he chose to recount to himself and to the Lady, the fun he’d had today, sending thoughts and images skyward of smiling friends and games, as if inviting comment or consideration from the Deity on his activities.  Perhaps she’d be tempted to give him a real Dream about the mystery of werewolves or the barrier around Mayview, things that were so different and unique that even a Goddess who heard the prayers of thousands upon thousands of worshipers each night might take notice and interest in.

He hadn’t gotten far into his silent litany of thoughts and questions before a pair of voices interrupted him, as the doors to the private chambers of the Sacred Blood, where both Inquisitor Spender and Isaac’s room lay, opened with a loud groan.

“Ah there he is just as I said,” Inquisitor Spender’s voice was filled the solemn silence of the Chapel with a jarring cheer.  “In the midst of his nightly reflection as should be expected.  You must have missed him earlier good-widow, or he arrived since, but no matter he is here now.”

“Indeed, he’s here _now_ ,” the voice was faint but sharp, like dried reeds softly dragged along stone, cracking as they moved.  Even so withered a voice still was filled with some inflection, doing  little to hide the disbelief its bearer carried.  Isaac didn’t need to open his eyes to recognize the speaker, nor did he require Spenders polite use of her title.  Widow Von Principa, Isaac wouldn’t bother with the honorary ‘good,’ within the privacy of his mind, had a voice well known in the Chapel and about the town.  She was always using it to badger those who prayed to shortly at Vigil, or speak softly, but just loud enough for people to hear, when recounting what she’d seen or who she’d heard about doing awful or scandalous things.

A warm palm on his shoulder let Isaac know he should stop his reflection to  speak with them.  He turned and lowered his gaze, opening his eyes pensively.  “Isaac,” Spender’s voice was filled with the odd cheer that he seemed to have about _everything_ even when talking with dried-up, bitter old crones.  “I was just talking with the good-widow about you.”

“She and you were… talking about me?” Isaac winced as he turned to look at the woman.  His gaze was caught by her beady eyes, small black shards trapped in circles of yellow-white, with hints of faded blue and red that Brother Doorman had called a sign of cata- something, a condition that dimmed vision with age.  Not that it had done anything thus far too weaken her sight, as more than one person in town could regretted admit.  There was plenty of focus and sharpness in her gaze still, peaking out as it did above her craggy nose nose and too thin, down turned mouth.

“We were just speaking about…” she trailed off a moment, her face twitching, and Isaac nearly blanched at the horrifying picture of her lips turning upward at the corners feebly, contorting her mouth in a strained grimace.   _Oh Blind Lady, I think she’s trying to smile…it’s awful_.  Isaac hid his discomfort as he tried not to stare at mouth, her teeth a shade close to that of weathered bones left in the sun and far too close to the aged and unsettling hue of her eyes.  “Speaking about you dear.”  The last word was so foreign sounding Isaac had to blink to understand what she’d meant.  He didn’t think he’d ever heard the word ‘dear’ pronounced with so little affection or even just inflection, in his life.  It was if someone was saying, ‘about you rock,’ or ‘about you tree,’ a statement of a thing with none of the tone that normally accompanied the term of endearment.   Even when some of the village wives were mad at their husbands and arguing out in the square for all to see, there was still something feeling in the word when the men said ‘yes Dear,’ even if it was resignation or irritation.

“Is something wrong?”  Isaac winced as soon as he said it.  The statement sounded nervous, as if he was hiding something.  And in a way he was. He could think of several things that the widow would think were wrong, starting with his closest two friends in the village and including how he spent his days hiding in the woods.  Not that any of that was anything to be ashamed of, but they were still things Isaac didn’t want discussed, or worse, to be deprived of, just because some _withered, gossipy, old goat_ of a woman had issue with the people around her being happy.  He tried to relax his shoulders, which were squeezing inward reflexively.  He also tried to smooth his face, because Isaac just _knew_ his mouth was pinching tight and his eyes were widening, in a manner that Max had once told him, made him look particularly guilty.   _I really am the worst at hiding things._

The hand on his shoulder tightened and the Inquisitor stepped past Isaac turning till he was standing right behind him, one hand now on each shoulder, in a comforting pat and show of support.  “Nothing of the sort Isaac.  Von Principa was just worried about you.”

“Worried…about me?”  Isaac knew the expression was a little too surprised, though he couldn’t help himself.  Von Principa didn’t worry, she nagged, she badgered, she grumbled, and sweet Blind Lady above, she gossiped…as naturally as breathing, did she gossip, but she didn’t worry.  Isaac saw the oversized white tufts of the widow’s eyebrows raise as her smile turned sharper, hearing his disbelief and undoubtedly taking offence, though to be fair, Isaac didn’t think it was possible for her to _not_ take offence.

“Of course, of course,” the Inquisitor continued warmly, oblivious to the horrifying glower-smile of the withered woman facing him as well as the nervous shake and expression on his acolyte.  “She was just wondering about your trouble with your Dreams.”  The Inquisitor must have sensed, even through his pleasant nothing-can-go-wrong attitude Isaac’s reaction at the mention of his Dreams or lack-thereof.  His hands tightened on Isaac’s shoulders even as Isaac slumped lower and he continued in a reassuring tone.  “Just trading thoughts with me about what might be more helpful, nothing more.”

“Indeed,” Von Principa continued her awful raspy voice starting back up with a rough cough that sent flecks of spittle towards Isaac that he was unable to dodge, trapped by Spender’s grip as he was.  “I was just wondering if perhaps the atmosphere, or even particular _elements_ , within town, might be _hindering_ your ability to be properly receptive to the attentions of the Blind Lady.”  And then Isaac understood, or at least thought he did.  This was about his friends.  It was about Isabel and Max.  She was blaming _them_ for Isaac’s weakness, his failings.  It was almost as bad as when other people whispered about his Father or his own blood being tainted.  No it was worse, because what the other people said might be true, there could be something wrong with him due to his own actions or his Father’s.  Isabel and Max; however, had done nothing to be blamed for.  They’d done nothing at all save offer him their friendship when no one else would.  Isaac stood straighter, feeling the Inquisitor behind him step back startled and Isaac was just glad he was facing away from the Inquisitor, so Spender couldn’t see the angry spark in his eyes when he spoke to the widow.

“There’s nothing wrong with the town or _anyone_ that I spend time with,“ Isaac couldn’t help the bite of anger in his words or the surge of pleasure at the way Von Principa’s eyes widened and she stepped back in response to the heat in his tone.

“Rightly so, rightly so.  Mayview is a good place, a wonderful place.  It’s why I’ve stayed so long,” Spender stepped in again, his voice all soothing tones and pleasantness.  “And as I said to the good-widow, it’s not a matter of you not being receptive.”  A hand dropped on Isaac’s shoulder again, this time surprisingly firm though whether it was meant to reassure him or caution him against his outburst he was unsure.  With his back to the Inquisitor it was difficult to determine what if anything Spender’s face showed other than his normal ambivalent cheer.  The Inquisitor continued speaking, his hand steady as his words clarified his intention enough to relax Isaac slightly, “the Lady speaks to us when she is ready and where she pleases.  Sending the boy away with Brother Doorman to his monastery on his next trip would bring him no closer to the Lady’s attention than being here in this Church.  Even where we to send him as far as Activia, and the heart of the Faith, he’d be no closer to the Lady than he is here, for she watches everywhere from on high.”

Isaac felt his blood run cold and the anger drop instantly as he caught onto Spender’s words.  She hadn’t been talking about keeping him from just hanging out with his friends as often.   _She’d wanted him to leave them entirely.  To leave the entire town, his home, everyone and everything he’d ever known._  The caution faded from Von Principa’s expression as she noticed the wounded panicked look on his face.  Isaac knew he shouldn’t show his fear- his nervousness.  Ed had told him several times over the short time of their acquaintance that you never cower, never show weakness in front of a predator.  And Von Principa was definitely a predator.  A withered, aged, musty old hawk, or worse… _what had Doorman called those birds that pecked at corpses and the dying in distant lands?  Vultures?_  Yes, Von Principa was a vulture.  An ancient, wrinkled scavenger preying on the weakened.   Isaac tried again to school his face into a more relaxed display, cursing how very expressive his face was.  It made his friends delight in teasing him, _friends I might lose if I’m sent away_ , the pang was sharp at that thought.  But worse than that his expressiveness made it so easy for the people around him to read all the things he wanted to hide.  Shame, sadness, anger, guilt, and right now…fear.

Von Principa’s face was no brighter in response, but she twisted her mouth again into one of her horrifying _smiles_ and her sharp gaze moved over Isaac’s shoulder to the Inquisitor.  “Of course, of course.  You are the expert in these sorts of things.  You can’t blame an old woman for meddling though, or worrying.  No you can’t.  It’s our right when we get to this age.  So little to do but worry about the children and what sort of _things_ our precious darlings are up to.”  She reached a withered hand out and two bony fingers pinched at Isaacs’s cheek so tightly he felt the skin turn red.  The words were all crackly, but what warmth or inflection in them was stilted, oddly placed, like when Isaac and the other children had read out loud from Brother Doorman’s books, uncertain what they were saying or how to properly say it.

Von Principa released Isaac’s cheek with suddenly and he struggled to hold his hands at his side instead of rubbing the mark he was sure had formed.  She patted it lightly for him, though he had to hold back a wince for fear she’d slap him instead when her hand first moved.  Then she tut-tutted once, before extending her hand past Isaac.  The Inquisitor made a polite elbow for her to grab and she leaned forward on it as if suddenly tired and frail, as the Inquisitor led her down the aisle towards the door.  Just as they’d moved past Isaac, as he was gathering himself to breathe a sigh of relief, she turned her head over her shoulder, looking him up and down with a hint of some _awful secretive-knowing_ in her eyes.  “Oh and Isaac,” she said her voice sounding grandmotherly, but in the same stilted unpracticed manner as her words before, “you really should be more careful with your clothes.  It’s hard to keep them looking bright and clean if you roll around in the _filth_. The Blind Lady only knows what sort of disgusting things might be there.”  It was hard not to wilt under that awful, hinting tone and shiver.  But he did his best, especially when the Inquisitor looked back at him as well, before glancing at the stains and sighing with a rueful chuckle before patting Von Principa’s hand on his elbow in a commiserating fashion and muttering under his breath boys-will-be-boys.

Isaac watched her stiff back with an almost paralyzed terror as she walked away.  He worried what else she might turn and say, what other tidbit she might hint at, or worse that she might turn again and see what fear her words had wrought in him.  He would have stared frozen on the spot, if not for a voice in his head achingly similar to Ed, growling and reminding him not to reveal fear to a predator.  He turned his stiff body back to the altar in a slow trembling steps.  Reflexively he closed his eyes, turning his head up and letting his hands slide into the familiar pose.  His body held, what he hoped to the widow would look like a calm, contemplating pose, but his mind raced in panicked circles.   _Oh dear Blind Lady.  Does she know about the woods?  About Ed?  If she knows about Ed, the Inquisitor might send me away.  Please, Lady, please don’t let them send me away._  Isaac stood stuck to the spot, worry for his future and fear of the aching loneliness he might endure tugging fitfully at his mind, leaving his sense of self stretched tight, with not a thought left for the normal reflection that accompanied his pose.

He was so wrapped up that he failed to notice the Inquisitor finish seeing Von Principa out.  He didn’t hear the soft thud of the door closing tight for the evening or the swish of the Inquisitor’s robes as he walked around the room, stopping occasionally and huffing out a soft breath to  put out the candles around the walls of the main Chapel.  It wasn’t till the candles at the altar in front of Isaac started to go out, the dimming of the light enough to be detected even behind Isaac’s closed eyelids, that he realized the Inquisitor was nearby.  With a jump Isaac lowered his head his eyes widening in surprise.  He turned to face the Inquisitor, whose back was to him snuffing out the last candles.

“Uh, I…Sorry sir, for my uh-for…” Isaac trailed off, not sure if he was apologizing for the stains or for leaving Spender to douse the candles for him.

“No fear Isaac,” the Inquisitor turned instead of putting out the last candle on the altar, leaving enough light for Isaac to make out his easy smile, though his eyes were, as always obscured by the darkened lenses.  Somehow he found Isaac’s face easily in spite of the fact that behind the lenses the room must be as dark as night already to him.  “Letting you finish your reflection was the least I could do since I interrupted you at it earlier to talk with myself and the good-widow.”

Isaac hoped the light was dark enough to hide the expressions of fear and discomfort he knew must show in spite of the effort he put into controlling his reaction.  He ransacked his mind, trying to think of something to say in response, some direction to lead their conversation.  Anything to talk about, other than Von Principa and her poisonous, prodding words.   _Get him to talk about something.  The barrier?  No, I’d have to explain how I’d seen it and as far as I know I’ve only ever seen it visible in front of Ed.  I’d have to explain Ed.  Then the Woods.  Then he’d know.  Then he’d send me away.  What else.  Anything else._

“Dreams,” Isaac blurted out, seeing the Inquisitor’s head jolt, surprised at the outburst, “Er, Dreams sir.  I know we’ve talked about them before, and I know you’ve explained how I shouldn’t be upset about my fail-“ he cut himself off as he saw the Inquisitor frown slightly and raise a hand to forestall Spender’s next words.  Isaac bowled past, correcting himself first, “about how the dreams haven’t come to me yet.  I was just wondering…if you could tell me about…your first time?  Your Dreams?  Just so I can know?  Maybe if I know what to expect...” Isaac trailed off, unsure where he was going.

“Isaac,” the Inquisitor sighed, frowning thoughtfully before turning and blowing out the candle.  Clearly he decided darkness would be easier to continue this conversation.  “I can’t, my experiences probably won’t be of any help.”  Isaac sighed, frowning and lowering his head.  Somehow, even in the darkness, the Inquisitor noticed his response.  Not that Isaac was surprised, he was an Inquisitor to the Blind Lady, she who sees without seeing, knows everything hidden in the night.  Of course Spender could tell, even in darkness, that Isaac was wilting at his words.  Sure enough a hand found Isaac’s shoulder unerringly, turning and walking them both towards the door that lead from the Chapel proper and towards their rooms.  A light out from beyond the door, still ajar from Spender and Isaac’s exit earlier.  Isaac squinted trying to use it to find his way along the uneven tiles, stumbling a few times.  Beside him the Inquisitor walked the tiles easily, untroubled by the darkness.  

Isaac heard another heavy sigh as the Inquisitor continued, “It’s not that I don’t want to share the details of my Dreams Isaac.  More that there are so many kinds of Dreams and there’s no guarantee mine would be of any use to preparing you.  It’s unlikely telling you anything could prepare you.  How do you prepare someone for their first Dream?”  His voice was raised in question at that last bit, but Isaac could tell it was spoken upward, towards the ceiling and the moon above, rather than Isaac.  “It’d be like helping someone get ready to hear an orchestra when they’ve ever only listened to a lute in a tavern.  Or to explain sailing on the East Sea to a man who has never met a body of water he couldn’t step across.”  Isaac wanted to ask what an orchestra was but he held it back just as he resisted peppering the Inquisitor with questions about the sea.  There were so many things the Inquisitor knew from his days living in Activia, the capital of the Faith, and his many years traveling the lands beyond Mayview.  Things he learned while living in the House of the Unseeing, the great fortress where the Inquisitors and most powerful of the Sacred Blood lived, surrounded by the homes of the nobility and the great markets of Activia, all fed by the wealth of the sea trade coming from the many lands that bent knee to the Blind Lady.  It was hard to remember sometimes, with how easily the Inquisitor lived and moved within Mayview, that he had once lived in the largest city in the land, moving in circles granted by his rank that would have him exposed to things that Isaac could only read about in Brother Doorman’s books.  Had traveled to places Isaac could never imagine.  There was an ache to experience it for himself, but as always, Isaac reminded himself that to experience it would mean losing everything he already had.  And his life had not been so rich with family and friends that he could easily part from those few he’d managed to gather.   Feeling that urge to explore; however, Isaac couldn't understand how Spender could have given all of that up, to spend years stuck in this isolated town taking care of an acolyte whose failure to Dream kept him…chained in this one place.  Isaac felt his usual unease.  It was why he hated asking the Inquisitor about his old days, worried that he might spark the wanderlust in his teacher or remind his teacher of the things he could be doing if not for Isaac.

When the door fully opened to the halls where the Sacred Blood’s chambers lay, the light surged out to greet them exposing the unhappiness on Isaac’s face before he could disguise it.  Spender turned, looking down at him before sighing and speaking softly.

“My Dreams…” he stopped a second, pausing uncomfortably before reaching towards his left arm and rolling up the long sleeve of his robe.  There, in dark ink on his skin was the Lady’s Gaze, the triangle formed by palms joined.  It included a blade, hilt sticking where the thumbs would meet and point nextled between the finger tips.  A fire was drawn in the ink surging around the blade, but contained by the fingers of the Gaze.  The symbol was well known to Isaac, it was the sword of judgement, bound by the Lady’s Gaze, signifying that all its wielder did was approved and sanctioned in her name. And showing how the flames of the righteous would cleanse all within her domain.  It was the mark of the Inquisition, the tattoo of an Inquisitor, a mark of those who could kill and hunt in her name.  “This,” Spender said tapping it slowly, “you know what this means.”

Isaac nodded, taken aback.  He’d seen it drawn, plenty of times in texts or illustrations.  He’d known on some level that Spender would bear the mark.  But seeing it a black stain marring the pale warm skin, was different than seeing it on a faded page.  It brought to Isaac’s mind the kinds of things that hand had done, fighting with a blade or setting a torch to dry kindling, raised in command to followers of the Faith.  He could almost hear the crackle of flames, the sound of blades striking blades, the sound of a mob howling for Witch-Blood, a mob like the one that had come for Max’s family.  It was the side of his Faith he was the most afraid of, the most worried over.  Not the warm teachings of love and support, but the condemnation of others, the willingness to punish those that failed to adhere.  And even though he knew on some level, instinctually that Spender, was part of it, was the _Inquisitor_ Spender, it was so hard to remember normally.  Not when the man was always smiling, offering reassurances and praise.  It was easier here in dim, flickering firelight, in the cold empty halls of the Chapel, facing that unsympathetic brand, to remember all of what Spender was, not just the part he respected and served.  Isaac looked up cautiously, hoping the discomfort on his face was read as something more appropriate, like reverence or awe.  Having caught his attention Spender grimaced unhappily.

“One does not…choose, that is to say, I did not want…” Spender leaned backwards against a wall, running one hand through his hair before continuing, letting his gaze slide slowly down  to the mark on his arm, drawing Isaac’s attention with it.  “Inquisitors do not choose the role, it is…there are many kinds of Dreams.  You remember me saying that much before, yes?”

Isaac nodded, unsure he wanted to speak with his throat feeling tight and the mark of the Inquisition plainly visible, obscuring the Spender he knew behind the Inquisitor he feared.  For the first time in years he thought of Max’s mother, not as he remembered her from his youth, smiling and gentle, but as she must have been that night, fearful and in agony.  Not that he’d been there to see it, he’d been recovering from a terrible illness at the time, weak and isolated in his chambers, no one willing to even check up on the child of the Priest who’d just died in such a terrifying lightning strike.   Even still wracked with fever dreams, even behind the stone walls and oaken doors, he’d heard the fire though.  And the screams.  How could he not when the burning had taken place in the town square outside the Chapel doors.  Isaac struggled to remind himself that Spender hadn’t been there, that this Inquisitor hadn’t been there for that.  But Spender had been an Inquisitor for a long time before coming to Mayview.  He might have not been there that night, but he’d certainly been at a fire, somewhere, sometime, when a Witch was burned.  There was enough of a tightness to Spenders face, a haunted strain to his body as he stared at the mark and not at Isaac, that spoke of memories he might have.  His own memories of agonized screams and the hungry crackle of flames that might surge at the back of his mind, creeping into his thoughts at the sight of the tattoo as they were in Isaacs.

Spender tore his gaze from his own arm and the action caught Isaac’s attention.  Isaac realized his nod yes to Spender’s question had gone unnoticed and licked his lips once before answering.  “Yes, I remember. Just this morning, you said that sometimes Dreams are about the future and sometimes the past, or now.  That some people see things far away and others things inside people’s minds.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Spender smiled in response, thought it was a less cheerful than the one he usually wore.  It was a strained, fragile thing.  “Well there’s another kind of Dream.  One that even most of the Sacred Blood never hear of.  One that marks you as belonging…to…them.”  A finger on Spender’s right hand pointed to the mark on his left arm, a long finger tapping the sword in the center of the tattoo, making it clear who he meant.  “I don’t know if telling you of my Dreams will help, Isaac, because I don’t Dream.  Not like the normal Sacred Blood.  A few of us,  a very small number, don’t see things that are or are meant to be.  We don’t get the occasional rare flash of something some nights, and peaceful rest on others.  When I Dream, every single night without fail, I….go…somewhere.  It’s like this …” Spender’s hands motion around them at the hallway.  “but it’s not.  It’s not easy to explain.”

Isaac frowned in confusion.  Spender sighed, nodding and shaking his head maintaining his tired smile.  Under his breath he muttered ruefully, ‘an orchestra,’ before focusing back on Isaac again.  He raises both hands and motions at the hallway.  “Right now you and I are here, in this hallway.  But there’s another one, another hallway that looks just like it, that is under this one.  Or I don’t know- over it?  Beside it?  Inside it?  It’s here as well.  Everything solid in this world, it’s here…twice, but the second one is faded.  Less real than this one.”   

Isaac thought back to Brother Doorman’s lectures, an old concept tickling at his memory.  “Like an echo?”

“Yes,” Spender smiled a second, his frustration easing, “I have no idea why Brother Doorman would teach something like that children in a small place like Mayvivew, but yes.  Bless him for being so bloody thorough in his lessons.  Yes, an echo.  Like this entire world has an echo in another place.  A place that, when I sleep, I go to.  That all Inquisitors go to.  We call it the Shared Dream.   We can meet there.  Train.  Pass Messages.  Move…well faster, without tiring…because the rules are…different there.”

“Different?  More than just being an echo different?”

“Yes…well,” Spender frowns, “the echo analogy isn’t quite right.  It’s not an echo of what’s here.  It’s more like it’s our echo of what we see here.  Our memory of what we know things are supposed to look like.  Places there, places like the House of the Unseeing are almost as real there as they are here.  Made real by the countless Inquisitors who walk the Shared Dream there and reinforce it with their memories.  Even here,” he motions again at the Chapel, “this Chapel is solid in the Dream, much more real than the rest of Mayview, because I spend so much of my time awake here and there in the Shared Dream.  And Mayview is more solid still than the forests beyond, where no one has walked who might remember it enough to carry its echo into the Shared Dream.  Those places, are just grey, faded places where the shapes melt into shadows and mist.”

The concept was foreign- strange- and Spender frowned in response to the look of confusion Isaac knew must be showing.  He smiled at Isaac weakly again  “I did say it was hard to explain.

Isaac moved past the idea of a world where sharp edges fade into nothing if one walks far enough and thought of the other things the Inquisitor had said.  “You…said you train?  There?  Like to be Inquisitors?  Or for more?”

“We train at all sorts of things.  Weapons.  Languages.  Maps.  Dance. Instruments.  We have to do something to keep busy.  We don’t truly sleep,” Spender said ruefully, “I’ve not had a true night’s sleep since I was twelve.  Not since the night I went to bed in my chambers with the other acolytes at the House of the Unseen, and just sat up on my pallet what felt like seconds later, in a grey hued room filled with empty beds.  I wandered the halls until a Father Inquisitor found me and calmed me.  Explained that I wasn’t having a nightmare.  I wasn’t mad.  That night they started teaching me.  To hunt, to control the Dream, to fight, to navigate, and the customs of the many people and lands we oversaw.  Anything and everything I would one day need.  When you can’t sleep, there’s so much time to fill each night.  And if you don’t do anything…”

Isaac shivered at the idea of never knowing any moment of rest of peace.  He wanted to ask what the Inquisitor did here, now, far from the company of other Inquisitors and isolated in Mayview, but he wasn’t sure if it wasn’t too private.  And again he was loathe to remind the Inquisitor of his isolation in Mayview because of his feeling of obligation towards Isaac’s education.  Instead he tried to keep his questions general, going back to the other things the Inquisitor had said.  “And you…move faster there?  You’ve traveled there?”

“Yes,” Spender nods seriously, “it’s one of the most important tools of the Inquisition.  If you’ve been somewhere in the waking world, or even been there enough times in the Shared Dream, you can move there when you enter the Shared Dream again.  Move faster than any horse could carry, or any boat could sail.  If I wanted, this night when I dream, I could visit the Shared Dream in Activia,meet my fellows and walk my old chambers in the House of the Unseeing.  I could even bring another Inquisitor back with me, to this place, teach them how to find it in the Shared Dream on their own.”

“You could leave,” Isaac tried to hide the horror in his voice at the idea that in the morning, any morning, he could wake and Spender would be gone, all of his advice, guidance, protection missing.  He could walk into Spender’s room and find nothing but an empty bed.

“No, no.  Not like that,” Spender reaches across the hallway to soothe Isaac, but stopped, when Isaac flinched away, the hand reaching for him still showing the exposed tattoo of the Inquisition.  With his right hand Spender reached over to his left arm, to slowly roll the sleeves of his robe down to hide the mark as he continued in a calm tone.  “I don’t go there for real.  My body stays where I sleep.  My…own echo?  My mind, can travel, but wherever I go and whomever I meet, I’ll wake here, where I went to bed.  It’s not something we use to travel, more something we use to speak.  When an Inquisitor wishes to…” he stops a second, before steeling himself and finishing his voice harder, “when the Inquisition hunts we use it.”  Isaac flinches weakly, discomforted by a vision of Spender standing amongst a faceless mob, dragging a screaming woman towards a fire.  Spender didn’t notice the flinch, his own eyes distant and his mouth curled in distaste, “If one finds a…Witch and they escape, the Inquisitor simply goes to sleep.  That night they find every Inquisitor nearby, in each direction and let them know to be on the watch.  They show an echo of the Witches face so his fellows can recognize the fleeing Witch.  No matter where you run, once an Inquisitor has seen your face, he can share it with every other Inquisitor.  You can’t outrun the Inquisition, because you can’t move faster than word of you can move in the Shared Dream.  And there are other…things that the can be done in the Dream.  Other ways to…” Spender stopped, standing stiffly and cutting himself off, either in realization he was saying things he shouldn’t, or that nothing he was saying was easing Isaac’s discomfort.  “There are things in the Shared Dream that are best kept there.  And some memories that can’t be escaped by retreat into slumber.”  He sighed after that before heavily turning to move away, letting the conversation end and giving Isaac some privacy.

Isaac took the dismissal with nervous eagerness moving towards his own door quickly, till he reached his door, across the hall from the Inquisitor’s own chambers. He reached for door already stepping in before realizing that Spender was facing his own door, his back to Isaac, but not moving to enter his own room. He stood stiffly, one hand frozen on the door.  Isaac watched a second, wary for the first time in his memory of Spender.  The Inquisitor turned, looking over his shoulder and frowning at Isaac before speaking, “Don’t worry so much about your lack of Dreams, Isaac.  You’d be surprised how much some would give for the chance at a night of dreamless sleep or for a chance to avoid the burden some Dreams can bring.”

With that the Inquisitor turned again, entering his room and shutting the door behind him.  Isaac retreated as well, for once not looking forward to the empty bed in his room.  He moved slow, slipping under the covers and throwing a desperate prayer heavenward, the prayer not for the Blind Lady to send him a Dream but to spare him the nightmares that would surely chase him to bed without her intervention.  When at last exhaustion dragged his eyes closed and his final thoughts chased him under, the prayer went unanswered, and nightmares clawed him into their embrace, in a world of shadows and mist lit by flickers of fire and the echoes of distant screams.

 

* * *

 

With a nervous whinny, the horse pulling Brother Doorman’s wagon edged towards the center of the old path, putting as much clear space as possible between itself and the woods on either side.  Woods that had only grown more fearsome as the night deepened.  I most certainly agree with the beast. _There’s nothing comforting about this night,_ Doorman looked to his right, considering the woman sitting beside him on the wagon and suppressed a shudder, _nothing comforting at all._

As if sensing his discomfort the woman turned, eyes filmed white but finding his face easily.  She centered her sightless gaze on him as if looking in his direction would be of any assistance.  “Brother Doorman, is something wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing at all Sister, just…the night has grown dark surprisingly quickly.  I suspect if the tree’s weren’t so thick overhead, that clouds might be obscuring the moonlight as well.  I think…I think it might be best if we stopped for rest sooner than I had anticipated.”

“You will get no complaint from me,” the Sister lifted one hand awkwardly to the small of her back, and smiled with a pained expression.  “I barely reached your convent on horse this afternoon, after days of travel.  I’d planned on taking at least a day of rest before taking the last leg to Mayview in the saddle.  Just the Lady’s luck that you and this wagon were already headed that direction.  I jumped at the chance to ride the wagon a bit hastily, thinking it’d be, easier than a saddle.  My back; however, is regretting my decision not to rest.”

 _Not just your back regrets your decision.  Lady’s luck indeed,_ Doorman clamped down on the thoughts.  The Sister might be blind, or near to it judging by the slight pupil dilation he’d seen earlier in the day through the milky film across her eyes.  Yet even blind those of the Sacred Blood who had given up or lost their sight were often surprisingly perceptive.  When their order prized blindness so highly, it stood to reason that they’d have have countless methods and training exercises for how to account for and overcome such a limitation.  Doorman hoped his voice held none of his reservations or worries as he responded, “Indeed, such good fortune.  Tell me, does the Inquisitor know you are coming?  I ask because if he is, he forgot to warn me.”

A sharp twitch at the side of the Sister’s mouth, made Doorman pull back his words regretfully and apologetically try again.

“That is to say, Sister, not warn.  More that he surely should have informed me of your presence, so I could have a-arranged for less f-full of a cargo that we might have traveled faster or even permitted you to sit in the back of the wagon more comfortably.”  The words were clearly hollow and Doorman was certain she could hear his falsity as easily as he could. _I am not cut out for this…secretive…stuff.  Damn Spender and damn my damnable curiosity for getting involved in this.  And might as well damn Father O’connor as well for dragging me into his mess to begin with, though the poor sod did that well enough for himself._  Doorman moaned in his head, trying not to think about the contents of his wagon, the horrible, incriminating, thing he was bringing for Spender, sitting so close to another of the Sacred Blood.

“I do admit, I was surprised at how much you had to load, judging by all the sounds I heard and the time it took,” the sister responded curiously.  “I was under the impression you took these journeys regularly.  Do they always need this much?”

“Well…” Doorman felt his face scrunching and knew the lies were going to be so obvious again.   _Don’t lie…you’re terrible at it.  The truth…stick to the truth._  “Well Mayview is…isolated.  I think it’s been four or five years since it had a regular merchant.  The convent sits on a far more travelled trade road, so sometimes it’s easier to send their requests and goods through me.”   _There, the absolute truth._  Though there had been no such requests this time.  Nothing other than the usual, light odds and ends, new needles for sewing, a few bags of salt, and rice to augment the grain supplies before the corn and wheat harvests were finally ripe.  And of course a few new books for the children that were still taking lessons.   _And the…thing that absolutely should not, could not be seen by anyone other than Spender._  Thankfully the same lay-brother who’d delivered it to him, sweating and fearful of what he held, had whispered at the last moment that there was a Sacred Blood visiting the convent, a Sacred Blood headed to Mayview.  Someone who wanted to see Inquisitor Spender and wished to join him.  In moments Doorman had rushed to the quartermaster, bringing a mountain of a list of needs the village might have and promising coin, _which Spender better be able to give me coin to cover for when I come back this way in a seven-days’ time.  If we are still alive!_

The wagon was now loaded with wool blankets from other merchants, several small barrels of wine, jars of spices, honey from the apiary, fruits from the orchards, even a tiny cask of the highly distilled brandy that the monastery made.   _That last one for me to drink myself senseless with if we survive this._  He’d put everything he could shove into the wagon all to hide the small bundle wedged tightly behind his seat by a blanket and a roll of parchments.  Even thinking about the bundle, so close to a Sacred Blood other than Spender, almost caused Doorman to break out in babbling incoherent terror.  Worse that the woman beside him was an Inquisitor!  Oh yes, he’d seen her tattoo proudly on display on her left arm, mockingly reminding him of her authority and the danger she represented.  He fervently wished she’d put on the long sleeved, draping overrobes that the Sacred Blood normally wore for daily business if for no other reason than to cover the tattoo.  Instead she sat beside him in a short-sleeved bleached-white-leather-tunic that seemed far more… marital… combative… completely and utterly threatening.

“In answer to your question,” the Sister must have gotten tired of his silence, and her voiced caused Doorman to jump, startled… _what question?  What did I ask her?_  “I do not believe we’ve been able to get a message to the Inquisitor yet as to my coming.  Its part of why I’m here.  Communication has been rare at best with Inquisitor Spender, and the Grand Inquisitor Walker, has been worried by the lack.  He is interested in knowing just what has kept Inquisitor Spender here so long?”

“Oh well, n-n-nothing concerning or worrisome, I’m sure.  That is, he certainly hasn’t t-t-told me,” Doorman winced, cursing his tongue’s completely inability to get a lie out.   _Stick to the truth you addle-brained knob-head._  “The Inquisitor is mostly concerned with the raising of the town’s sole Sacred Blood representative, the son of the previous Priest.  He died…you know.  During a storm.  And left his child, Sacred Blooded of course, a ward of the Chapel.  When the Inquisitor arrived he took to the teaching of the boy.”

“Oh I’m familiar with the situation,” and the way the Sister said it made Doorman’s hands flail, hopefully quietly enough she couldn’t hear the sound, at the horrifying thought of how much of the situation she might be _familiar_ with.  But of course she couldn’t.  If she’d known she wouldn’t be coming alone.  There’d be more.  Many, many more Inquisitors.  “Still, it is odd.  The Grand Inquisitor was expecting a request to come for a replacement Priest years ago, not for one of the most experienced Witch-Hunters in the Inquisition to just take up, sedentary village life.”

“Perhaps…it agrees with him?  The quietude?”  Doorman internally groaned at how utterly unconvincing that sounded when his voice unconsciously rose at the end to make it a question rather than a statement.

“Whether or not it does, we don’t get to take a break just because we desire some peace and quiet.  An Inquisitor is always expected to be ready to fill the needs of the Inquisition.”

“Ah well…as to that.  I can’t rightly-” Doorman cast his gaze about worriedly for something to distract and caught a flash of light ahead.  “Oh, luck.  It seems someone else has set up a campsite.  Perhaps they will have room for two more at their fire.”   _And perhaps they can talk so I don’t have to._  Doorman grew quiet, hoping that the sister would believe it was the effort of guiding the animal that distracted him.  Truthfully it was merely fear of what he might say.  The horse needed no urgings to seek the light.  The darkness of the forest had the animal so unnerved, Doorman wasn’t quite sure he could have convinced the animal to continue walking past the campfire.  As they neared, Doorman wondered at the fact that the fire set beside the road, in what looked like a natural clearing, was abandoned.  “That’s… odd.”  He muttered, the puzzle temporarily distracting him from the many worries that had swarmed his thoughts thus far.  “One moment Sister, it seems the camp is empty?”  Slowing the horse to a stop and hopping off the wagon, Doorman absently wrapped the reins of the horse about a nearby limb before moving towards the fire to explore.

“Brother Doorman,” the sister said warningly, her eyes looking off to the side at the darkness beside him, “perhaps it would be wiser not to approach so- look out!”

Without warning, or at least none he’d detected, Doorman found himself shoved against a nearby tree, both of his arms tightly gripped behind his back and his face pressed roughly into the bark.  A wall of muscle and…judging by the chill through his robes and the sharp unmoving pressure, metal armor, squeezed him against the rough wood, pressing against his back, locking him in an immobile position.  “Who are you,” the voice above and behind his ear echoed oddly, as if from within a chamber.  Doorman felt himself quite justified, after the awful, horrid, terrifying day he’d had, in the fact that he couldn’t form a single coherent word to respond.

The grip on his arms tightened angrily and he was quite certain one or both of his shoulders were inches away from being dislocated, when the pressure on him was abruptly eased as the man behind him moved, leaving him flailing into the tree before his knees gave and he all but collapsed to the ground, forehead kept up only by the tree it rested against.  A few thumps, and several sharp rings of metal bouncing off metal were behind him.  It was accompanied by grunting breaths of exertion both in a man and woman’s voice heaving behind him.  There were a few scuffling sounds, heavy treads stomping and lighter feet stepping or dragging through dirt.  A few more rings of metal sounded out and finally just dreadful silence.

Quite worried as to what he might find, Doorman drew himself out of the relieved stupor of just being alive still, to at last roll awkwardly so that his back and head were supported by the tree and his legs splayed on the ground towards the tableau.  The Sister had a blade drawn its point aimed at a mountain of a man, standing half a head taller than Doorman would be if no sitting.  This struck him oddly for he himself had always been a fairly tall, if thin man.  This brute; however, loomed, in all senses of the word both tall and wide.  Doorman could only imagine how much muscle it must take to support that much metal.  The armor was mostly rounded plates, though the helmet was oddly designed, flat on top but with forward pointing visor for the eyes and a matching pointed mouth piece.  The style was distinct, it struck a chord in Doorman’s memory,   _Teuton-style armor_ , the analytical part of Doorman’s mind pointed out, though it gave no helpful suggestion as to what that might mean.  It meant something.  Something very important and worrisome, though Doorman couldn’t quite recall what with all the distraction and fear.

His attention was quickly moved away from the puzzle as he wondered a moment at why they were still and not fighting, before he realized that the Sister’s blade was resting at a point between helmet and chest plate, where only chain-metal rested.  The chain links might be an admiral defence against sweeping or cutting strikes, but were wholly unhelpful against the thin, stabbing style rapier the sister wielded.  The rapier came to a sharp enough point that at least a few inches of it would pierce the chain before catching, more than enough to do damage to the vulnerable neck of the man.  Brother Doorman took a moment to ponder at how she could have even found such a weakpoint without at least the benefit of sight.  Had she recognized the feel of it through her blade during a strike, did she just happen to recognize the armor style just from the sounds and blurry visions gained while fighting, and have that style of armor memorized for its particular gaps and open spots?  Did she figure out the man’s general height from the angle of the strikes?  Academically, the puzzle was fascinating and if he felt anything other than complete terror for either of the people in front of him, he was sure he’d be abuzz with questions for them.  Of course he wasn’t the only one with questions but terror didn’t hold any other tongues.

“Who are you,” the Sister said, clearly pressing her advantage of the moment to commander the conversation.

“Forge,” for all that the woman held essentially a long knife to this throat, the man seemed less afraid than resentful in his answer and reluctant to offer any further help.

“And what sort of man, Forge, sets traps for travelers to ambush them.”

“Whatever sort that does, I’m not one of them,” the man didn’t so much as speak as rumble and Doorman swore he more felt the answer in his bones than heard it.  “I’m the sort who sets himself a camp, but isn’t stupid enough to leave himself exposed when he hears a group of travelers approaching.  A group who don’t bother to call out loudly in greeting but rather approach in silence save for the tack of their horse.”  The man seemed remarkably confrontational rather than concerned about the danger he was in.

 _Oh well, I guess I did forget to offer a greeting.  But then again, in my defense, I just didn’t want to say ANYTHING with…well her right there._  “That would have surely been my fault,” Brother Doorman started, resting an arm against the tree behind him as he awkwardly rose to his feet.  “I’m afraid I was a bit t-t-t- err…well weary.  I didn’t bother with a proper greeting, I’m afraid.  Just saw the light and was focused on getting the horse to calm enough to approach, he’s a bit feisty.”  To the side the horse sat there placidly, as it had throughout the entire fight, without offering more than a mild snort, clearly not the least bit excited.  Doorman winced as even the stupid creatures around him were worthless at helping him with his laughable ability at lying.

The Sister didn’t budge and the horrid mountain of a man, Forge, was still tensed up, as if ready to spring into action.  Doorman found it quite terrifying, remembering how quickly the man had pinned him earlier, though how someone so massive could move so fast was beyond the Brother.  Eager to prevent some sort of bloodshed, which would undoubtedly result in his own blood being shed, likely before either of theirs, Doorman tried again, this time speaking to the Sister.  “Surely, it was just a case of mistaken identity, Sister?  Perhaps we can try again?”  When the Sister didn’t respond, just continued staring, undoubtedly analyzing the man with whatever wondrous tricks the Inquisition taught it's less-sighted representatives, Brother Doorman tried again, this time phrasing his address more formally to catch her attention.  “I’m sure Inquisitor-“

“Inquisitor!” The change that came over the other man was shocking, as he gasped the word with, for his rough voice, surprising softness.  The tension dropped from his body instantly and he dropped to a knee, leaning inward with his head to execute a kneel.  Only the Sister’s incredible reflexes kept the man from doing the work of skewering himself on her blade for her.  She moved back with surprising quickness and to Doorman’s fascinated curiosity, did so without tripping over the stump that had been behind her, but rather around it.  All this she did while keeping the blade between them but far enough back not to prick either the chain main or plate.    ”Forgive me Mother, I did not know.”  The helmet of the man lifted and Doorman saw the visor look to the Sister’s arm, pausing when when the eye-slits rested on the tattoo on her arm in time for him to finish his words causing the last ones to be spoken in a near reverent tone.

“Sister…” the Inquisitor replied, correcting him automatically.  “I’m too new to the field yet to have earned the title of Mother.  Sister Day, most recently of Activia…and this,” she absently motioned in Doorman’s direction, “Is Brother Doorman, of the nearby convent, in service to the Ink and Quill.”

Forge barely acknowledged Doorman, not that this surprised him.  The monastic orders, such as his, were hardly held in the same reverence as positions held by the Sacred Bloods, or Lady forbid the Inquisition.  The monastic orders were for those who had fast minds or wandering hearts, but lacked the Sacred Blood that would give them right to serve the Faith in higher positions.  Instead they chose to pursue studies of the natural world, or teach, or travel the land doing charity depending upon the order they were in service too.  A noble service, the pursuit of knowledge, if one asked Doorman.  Just not as inspiring or exciting he supposed as getting Dreams and chasing enemies of the Faith.

“And I am Forge, Mo- er Sister Day.  Of the Teutons.”

At that Brother Doorman bit back a startled and quite horrified gasp.  Hearing the name of the order said out loud.  Seeing the near knightley pose of obeisance the man took to a member of the Inquisition.  The little bit that had tickled at his mind when he recognized the armor with alarm.  It all fit together and he knew with fearful certainty what Forge was.  “A crusader… here?” the words came out of Doorman’s mouth in a gasp as his throat all but choked itself tight with alarm.   _Oh Lady forbid!  Not a Crusader._  At that the helmeted man did turn to look at him, more consideringly, which did nothing to ease Doorman’s mind.  Sister Day’s face squinted a moment in consternation before looking…well not looking but facing the man in a considering fashion.  Crusaders of course were almost as terrifying as Inquisitors.  They were men, and some women if tales were true, who formed the marital backbone of the Faith.  Taking those with or without Sacred Blood, all that was required to join was an utter fanatic devotion to the Lady and a complete willingness to express that devotion by spilling the blood of just about anyone or anything that their commanders pointed at.  In stories they were more berserker once they started fighting the enemies of their faith, pitiless fighting machines.  They were known to kill people on even the _suspicion_ the person had slighted the Blind Lady or done a disservice to the Faith.  And now one was here.  With an Inquisitor.  And so close, just a few long strides away was the wagon...and the thing where either of them could find it.   _Dreadful…this day gets worse and worse._

“And what…brings a Crusader, this far into the wilderness,” Sister Day seemed hardly moved by the horrifying fact that she was talking to a Crusader of all things as she pressed the man for information.  Though if Doorman was fair, he supposed if anyone was safe in the presence of a Crusader it was an Inquisitor, both due to the terrible proficiency in combat trained into Inquisitors and the mere fact that as the eyes and voice of the Lady, Inquisitors often commanded Crusaders.  Truthfully the only person present who should be ill at ease was himself, and oh how very ill at ease he was.

“No particular goal Sister,” wonders of wonders, Doorman thought he actually detected deflection and a sudden wariness in the man’s pose quite at odds with the devotion and reverence one would expect from a Crusader to an Inquisitor.  In spite of himself Doorman felt the familiar curiosity perk to attention in his mind.  The Crusader chose that moment to stand, slowly.    He moved cautiously back from Sister Day moving closer to the fire and towards a rather thin log.  Doorman thought he meant to sit on it but it was too thin to be comfortable or even likely to bear the man’s weight  But no it wasn’t a log the light caught on a massive metal spiked head at one end, covered in etchings and designs.  Doorman hissed in surprise as he drew a breath.  It was a hammer, a Great War Maul, quite possibly as tall as Doorman himself!  Forge looked up at his panicked breath and even through the helmet, Doorman was certain the man was smirking at him.  The Crusader moved past the hammer, towards a horse that somehow had been nestled back in the woods, quieter and calmer than even his own steed.  Though if it was a Crusader’s horse, it had probably charged and fought through battles far more intense than the small skirmish between the Sister and its rider.  The man raised his hands, lifting the helmet off with ease and then worked at the gauntlets, working them off and setting them in a sack hanging from the horse  before turning to face Doorman and the Sister again.  His hair was long and black obscuring much of his face now that he’d taken the helmet off, though his nose and jaw jutted forward as sharp and oversized on his face as the points of his helmet had been.  He flashed an all too easy smile at them as Sister Day moved closer to the fire seeming to find a stump to sit upon with surprising ease after just a few quick prouds at the ground with the tip of her rapier.     

“And that’s not a particular answer, Crusader,” Doorman winced at the palpable air of tension that filled the air when Sister Day responded even though neither was outright holding a weapon at the ready.

“And it's particularly more than you are likely to get, Inquisitor.” Forge raised a hand in a calming manner as he said it, before seeing her eyes more clearly as she drew near the fire.  With a start he realized the gesture might be missed and gave her a more appraising look as he realized how well she’d fought in spite of her sight.  He quickly spoke to explain.. “Not that I mean offense by that of course.  Just that nothing has brought me out here of particular import.  My order has sent me to wander seeking demons, witches, and other things that trouble the Faithful and might lurk at the edges of the civilized lands.  While traveling nearby, I’d heard stories that the something in this wood preyed on travelers.  That it had done so for years and over time it had led to merchants avoiding the region and the villages hereabouts being isolated.  I thought it was likely bandits,” he looked at Doorman in something like apology, offering this for his explanation at handling Doorman so roughly and treating them with such suspicion.  “Still some of the tales mentioned beasts rather than bandits, they spoke of tracks too large to be a normal creature of the woods.  And something that hunts with far more cunning and intellect than any mere animal, taking even groups of travelers and leaving only destroyed wagons and trails of blood in its wake.  It might not seem like much…but when hunting demons, anything out of the normal deserves consideration.”

“But demons, prefer to inhabit people, not beasts,” Doorman idly muttered before realizing what he’d said and almost biting through his own tongue in horror.  Both Sister Day and the Crusader turned to him and he found the attention utterly overwhelming.  “That is, I mean.  I’ve read about as much.  In my studies.  Not that I’ve studied demons.  Well not exclusively.  But I’ve made a study…of books that have mentioned them.  Well a study of books that just happened to mention them, not that were about them.”

“Demons,” the crusader replied with a menacing voice, “may inhabit whatever they wish and at the death of their host, move again to a new body, spreading their taint until they are trapped in a body as it dies and forced to perish with it.  To that end,  if they are not trapped they may inhabit whatever is at hand.”  He did nod once then to Doorman stiffly, “Though it is true what you say, they prefer to possess men to beasts.  And in truth I suspect this Beast, if it does exist, is not an animal of the forests, but a man in one of the local villages or one who perhaps travels between them, seeking out easy prey or wanderers to hunt down in the night.”

“A surprising story, if true.  But then if that is your suspicion perhaps you should join us,” Sister Day replied smoothly.  “We are bound to the largest village in the region now, Mayview.  Another Inquisitor resides there.  I am certain he can tell you if anyone in his village travels far or often or if they have any regular visitors or hermits who might live farther afield.”

_Oh Lady above,_ Doorman whimpered in his mind.   _An Inquisitor and a demon hunting Crusader heading to Mayview.  Damn my curiosity and damn that interminable Inquisitor Spender.  What are we going to do?!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, Blitz, do solemnly swear this delay was the fault of me. ^_~ Family vacation away from the internet and catching up at work after kept me from being a responsible collaborator!   
> Whelmed is as always wonderful and faultless!


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